


fixing things (should not be this complicated)

by TheShadowPanther



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Alpha Stiles Stilinski, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Buried Alive (Brief), Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mentioned Scott McCall, Mentioned Sheriff Stilinski, Other, Panic Attacks, Passive Suicidal Ideation, Psychological Torture, Self-Esteem Issues, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Stiles Has Panic Attacks, Stiles Stilinski Has Low Self-Esteem, Suicidal Stiles Stilinski, Time Travel Fix-It, Torture, Unreliable Narrator, Warning: Kate Argent, Werewolf Culture, Werewolf Mythology Shenanigans, mentioned (past) death of an unborn child
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2018-10-17 01:33:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 55,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10583640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheShadowPanther/pseuds/TheShadowPanther
Summary: This is such a last-resort, last-ditch effort, oh my God. If he wasn't desperate, he'd be absolutely against this plan. This is a terrible, terrible plan. But it's the only one they've got, after the Alpha pack killed most everyone important to him (His dad, oh God, hisdad).At this point, the only way to fix this, any of this, is to go back. Back all the way to the beginning. Back to before Kate Argent sets the fire that kills the Hale pack.





	1. First Step, Or, Where's My TARDIS?

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [And I Told Her I Would Fix it All](https://archiveofourown.org/works/406364) by [Menacherie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Menacherie/pseuds/Menacherie). 



> I started writing this monster before S3 ever aired (so long ago, oh my God). It was supposed to be an in-depth psychological exploration of Menacherie’s [And I Told Her I Would Fix It All](http://archiveofourown.org/works/406364), but, well, like basically every story I write, it laughed at me and said, “I don’t think so.” So we’ll go with it was “inspired” by the abovementioned fic. 
> 
> (Menacherie, I’m sorry it’s taken so long for me to get even the first chapter up, and that it emphatically does not even a teensy little bit follow your plot after the first bit, but, well, I figured it was better to get it up when I could be remotely proud of it and not when it was taking me for the wildest ride ever, omg.)
> 
> Canon compatibility: This goes up to but not including the very end of Season 3A. However, there are details sprinkled through gleaned from later seasons, mostly #stilinskifamilyfeels (the best kind, imo) from 5A and probably others that don’t come to mind right now. If you spot any huge canonical errors (aside from the obvious deviations), let me know, I’ll do my best to pretend I meant to do that while frantically fixing the mistake. Lol. 
> 
> Other than that, enjoy!
> 
> (For warnings about Major Character Death before you read the story, read the endnotes. Please take care of yourselves, I take no offense if the back button is your destination rather than reading this tiny contribution to the cyberverse.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia works her powers as a banshee, and nothing's the same.

**_T-0 Days_**

Rubbing at his face, Stiles lets the cover of the heavy-ass tome thump closed. All around him, other books and papers are strewn about Scott's room, crumpled paper balls and hastily-drawn symbols in Lydia's handwriting, layers of printouts burying the room in tents of white and flashes of color. Plates of food dot the paper landscape here and there, most half- or three-quarters uneaten. Stiles tries half-heartedly to remember when he had eaten them, or when Lydia had, but gives up. He doesn't care enough. 

Instead, he stretches the last of the kinks out of his spine and unfolds to his full height. Muscles in his legs and back cramp, scatter into pins and needles as they move out of positions they've been holding for days; Stiles groans and tries to work out the cramps, shake the static away. 

"You all right?" 

He looks up. Mrs. McCall is in the doorway, leaning on the doorjamb like it's the only thing holding her up. Guilt strikes, quick as a cobra, through him; he averts his eyes, bends to pick up the book he'd just finished reading. 

"Stiles?" 

Stuffing the notes and Lydia's most up-to-date drawing of the starscape they need, Stiles says, "Yeah." 

"Today's the day, isn't it." 

Startled, Stiles meets Mrs. McCall's eyes again. They're liquid brown, the same color and shape as Scott's, and they hold the same piercing insight that made Scott so devastating sometimes, makes his mom just the same way. 

He looks down again, can't give an answer. Can only give a shrug. 

Mrs. McCall's sigh sounds like it comes from her marrow of her bones. Stiles flinches, not only at the sigh, but at the comparison. His brain... is not the best place to be right now. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her legs move backwards out of the doorway. 

He's made it halfway out the door himself when next Mrs. McCall speaks. "You fix it." 

"Huh?" Stiles looks up, meets those eyes again. This time, Mrs. McCall doesn't let him look away. 

"I don't care what you have to do," she says. "As long as Scott's alive..." 

"And my dad," Stiles interjects, stung. Scott wasn't the only one who—

"Oh, of course, honey. And your dad." Mrs. McCall looks contrite. Her hand rises, hesitates, falls away. She starts again, "As long as everyone's alive..." 

Stiles subsides, nods his head sideways to the concession. 

"...you do what you have to do." 

For a moment, Stiles stands there. There's so many things going on inside of him that he can't put a name to any of it, can only struggle through a bare understanding. Mrs. McCall stands with him, her eyes fierce and looking, herself, a lot like a specter of vengeance or something. Absolution, maybe. Or maybe that's Stiles's grief speaking. He moves without thinking, has his arms around her, tight, squeezes his eyes shut against the fucking ever-present tears when she hugs him back just as tightly. 

They stand there for a long moment, Stiles breathing in the scent in her hair, fighting against the tears that keep trying to well up. From the hitches in Mrs. McCall's breathing, he knows she's doing the same thing, and that makes his own fight harder. 

At last, Mrs. McCall draws back. "Go on," she says, pressing her hand to her eyes. "That moon isn't going to wait forever." 

Stiles emits a weak laugh. "No, it won't." 

"Say hi to Scott for me on the other side," Mrs. McCall adds. "And make sure your dad is eating right." 

Stiles's eyes sting again. "I will, Mrs. McCall." He takes a step, turns back. "Uh..." 

Mrs. McCall's eyes soften. "You do what you have to." 

He nods. "Yeah." He hugs her once more, breaks away to hurry down the stairs and outside. Lydia, a pale, bruised-eyed version of herself at the bottom of the stairs, falls into line with him. 

"You ready?" he asks, not looking at her. 

"As I'll ever be," she says, sounding distant and far away. 

They don't say anything more, not when they get to the Jeep, not during the noisy drive, not until they get to the site. Then, for a brief moment, the both of them come alive again, for better or for worse, to do what must be done. 

The nemeton is a dark shadow underneath him as he slides across its broad, cracked face. He imagines that there's a pulse of recognition from him to it, it to him, as he touches it, imagines that it warms under his hands the longer he's in contact with it. 

"This had better work," he says despite himself, despite all the work they had done, all the time, hah, time they spent poring over getting the details exactly right, on making sure it would work. 

"Of course it will work," Lydia says from where she's laying out the last of the green powder in place around the nemeton. She pauses, meets Stiles's eyes. "It'll work because it has to work." 

Stiles holds Lydia's gaze, nods. He forgets, sometimes, that he wasn't the only one affected. Sure, Mrs. McCall, too, but also Lydia...and Isaac, who's coming through the edge of the clearing. 

"There you are," Lydia says, evidently not surprised. "Get over here, hold the flashlight for me. It'll be easier to read if I don't have to juggle everything." 

Stiles watches Isaac as he makes the trip across the clearing to Lydia's side. Isaac looks back at first, defiant, his shoulders hunching, then away, as Stiles's gaze becomes too heavy for him to bear. He accepts the flashlight Lydia hands him, obediently angles it where she needs it. 

"Isaac..." Stiles starts. 

"You're not the only one who needs everything to change," Isaac bites, still not meeting his gaze. "We may not be best friends, Stilinski, but this is a bad situation for everyone. I'm not standing on the sidelines and just letting things happen anymore." 

Right, because he lost everything with Scott's death and Allison's leaving, too. Stiles looks away, into the shadows on shadows darkness of the preserve, and listens to the woods grow still, listens as the trees wait with bated breath. 

"Time," he says in a voice far away from his own ears. Lydia immediately begins chanting, the cadence of her voice reading the Archaic Latin syllables alternatively soft and loud. Light, phosphorus-green and curling like smoke, glimmers from the base of the nemeton, inches slowly up its roots, the stump, towards Stiles. At the first touch, Stiles has a flash of sensation: strong fingers on his shoulders, a soft reassuring voice: "You've still got me, kiddo. You've still got me." 

"Dad!" Stiles cries out, his arm automatically reaching. But the sense-memory fades, his dad's hands and voice retreating from him. Oddly, the feeling - half-choked grief, relief and the warmth of fierce love - doesn't vanish. Stiles hangs onto that feeling like a lifeline, as the pale, pale green light steals in through the legs of his jeans, creeps over his waist and under the hem of his shirt. 

"Stiles." Lydia's voice echoes strangely, like tinnitus. Turning his head, he startles slightly; she is lit up by the green of the smoking light, her eyes catlike as they peer at him. "Scott was a True Alpha. Deucalion may have killed him, but power derived by will rather than by might follows different rules. Remember that." 

What? Stiles opens his mouth to say, but the light chooses that as an opportunity to pour into him. Swallowing, Stiles tries to gag, but it's too thick. It coats the back of his tongue and throat, seeps downwards to his lungs. 

The world blurs. He blinks, feels rather than sees his eyelids slide over a flexible pane over his eyes. Pale green covers everything he sees, Lydia and Isaac, the trees at the clearing's edge (so, so still, frozen in the hope that if they don't move, he won't notice them there), even his hands when they slowly lift into view. 

Lydia is back to the book in her hands, her mouth moving silently over new words. Isaac is staring, but slightly off-center of Stiles. He seems caught between morbid fascination and horror, as if he can't make up his mind which he would prefer to feel. Stiles would say something about that, but the words slide away from him, filter out of his brain like water through a hole in the bottom of a reservoir. 

"Stiles," Lydia says again, clear as a bell. He finds his vision swinging slowly to her, traveling over the (still as stone) trees, the shadows in between (hiding everything and nothing; the life it could have sheltered within has fled for the safety of distance, an illusion no creature could withstand the call of even with knowledge of its deceptive nature), Lydia’s face. She looks like she is a reflection in water, rippling, ebbing, eddying back. Then it straightens out, sharp against the soft edges of everything else, and he feels like he sees her, all of her, for the first time. 

For the first time he begins to understand the shape of the Darach's word for her, _banshee_ reverberating through him as she stares boldly at him, into him, through him. "Don't forget us," like a command, a bullet, a strike of lightning through him – 

White sears into his mind, through it. Pain upon folds of pain assault him, drive deep fissures into his brain. Lydia's and Isaac's faces fracture into shattered mirrors. The ground falls away and spins him, adrift, into the darkness surrounding. He opens his mouth to – 

Nothing left. He’s nothing but pain, as the white sear starts to move downwards, behind his eyes, down into the cavities behind his nose, burning into his chest, towards his heart – 

He knows, suddenly clearly, that he’ll be nothing but ashes when the burning white is done with him. He’s almost glad, can almost see where this is going, almost hears Scott’s voice shouting his name, can almost see Erica’s wild curls, Boyd’s unimpressed stare. Almost, almost there, except – 

Except. Bubbling up against the searing white is that feeling again. The knotted hollow ache, the hot seething scald of _alive, she left me, she_ left _me, but I’m not alone,_ "You've still got me, kiddo" a drumbeat against the abyss, a thm-thm-thmp, _thm-thm-thmp_ , **thm-thm-thmp** rhythm in his ears. 

The rhythm rises up and overtakes him, sweeps him away before it. He falls against it, lets the wash take him where it will, knowing nothing of anything but the choke of grief and the surge of love as he stumbles through the shadows, farther and farther from everything. The Void opens wide before him; with a snap, it closes shut around him, swallows him whole. 

The laser of white still sparking through him, grief-choke and warmth-love blossoming outwards, Stiles closes his eyes and doesn't think of what's to come.

:~:~:~:

When the doctors at Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital examine the John Doe’s MRI scans, they notice a very strange buildup in one part of his brain – namely, the pain centers. Naturally, this discovery is very concerning to them, for not only is it a lesion in the Doe’s brain, but it has also complicated the Doe’s case. They’re already baffled by the way the Doe won’t wake up, by the damage to his throat as if he were screaming for a very long time, and how every so often the Doe twitches, sometimes spasms in a manner similar to epileptic seizures.

But there’s no evidence of epilepsy in the Doe’s brain that they’d expect, and the buildup that _is_ there looks like nothing the Memorial Hospital surgeons have seen before. Their only course of action is to try several drugs and techniques to try to reduce the buildup, and if nothing happens, to resort to open-brain surgery. 

Of course, just as they’ve decided on this, the John Doe opens glowing red eyes and begins to scream.

:~:~:~:

They work for two days to stabilize the Doe's condition. Not consecutively, for the seizures and the lucid intervals (if you can call the screaming periods “lucid”) only occur in fits, spaced wider and wider apart over time, until forty-eight hours exactly after the first scream, the seizures stop altogether. The doctors remain on watch for another twenty-four hours, but the fits don't return. When they run another scan on the Doe's brain, they find that the lesion in the pain centers of the brain is gone, just as if it never existed.

 _Strange,_ they say, scratching their heads. _Well, we're going to figure it out,_ they reassure themselves. _Not like John Doe is going to go anywhere in his medically-induced coma. We might as well get some sleep and come back to this problem with fresh eyes and brains._

Six hours later, the head surgeon is woken up from a deep sleep cycle to the hysterical voice of one of the nurses. She jumps out of bed, to the complaints of her husband, and rushes to the hospital, sliding to a stop outside of the John Doe's room. There, she stops for breath, only to lose it again when she takes in the sight in front of her. 

The IV is disconnected. The sheets are half-torn off the bed. There's the hospital gown printed with general geometric shapes puddled on the floor. One of the blinds on the window has been pulled down and now lies in a heap near the door, nearly ruined. The window itself hangs crazily in its frame, the bottom half pushed out and slightly bent upwards, despite the steel frame and the flexible glass. 

It looks like a bomb went off in there, the head surgeon thinks. Or a localized hurricane. A very small localized hurricane. The only thing it needs to complete the picture is splatters of blood everywhere, across the walls, the bed, the window, and all over the patient, who would look up with empty eyes from the serrated knife in his hand, and say, _The voices made me do it._

Except. There’s no blood. There’s no serrated knife, no dead body on the floor, its eyes glassy and limbs distorted, its neck slashed. There’s no patient with empty eyes, who has voices in his head that demand a murder sacrifice. In fact, the surgeon thinks, as she looks around, sluggish, there’s no patient at all. 

The John Doe is gone.

:~:~:~:

The woods aren't the ones the wolf is used to. Or they are, but they are younger, smell differently than he remembers. He doesn't like it. These are his woods, but they aren't. Now they are someone else's; the stench is ingrained into them, rubbed and scratched and pissed into them, potent now where only stale traces, ghosts, remained in his territory-that-was.

He shakes his head with an irritated growl. Focus, an echo tells him. Yes, that's what he has to do. He has to find the ones who are the source of the stink on the trees and the earth, and he has to warn them. He has to warn them about....

The trees flash by. He skids to a stop in a clearing, crouches down. Another wolf, growling with eyes glowing amber, pops up, snarls at him and slashes the air at him with sharp claws. He doesn't have claws, nor does he have the fangs the beta bares at him, but he is unafraid, for he is stronger. One roar and the beta's skittering back, fear and shock in its eyes. He likes that, wants more of that, wants to take the beta's throat into his mouth and clamp down, demand submission or wreak death. 

The beta bares its fangs at him again, fear jack-rabbiting its heartbeat like a song in his ears. Suddenly it bursts into a howl, loud and ringing through the trees. Snarling, he launches at the beta and swings at its head. But the beta fends him off and throws him across the clearing; he lands with a grunt and then has to scramble out of the way as another beta, different from the first, puts its fist where his head used to be. He gets to his feet and hustles to get on top of a rock, whereupon he whirls on the betas and draws himself to his fullest height. 

The betas instinctively crouch into attack positions, but they don't come closer. One of them snarls something at him. He snarls back, jerks forward as if to snap the beta's head off. The beta flails back; the other one tries to take advantage of his momentary inattention and leaps. He simply drops underneath the assault, kicks out wildly, and connects solidly, sending the beta with a yelp into a pile of leaves. He swings around with bared teeth at the first beta, but the first beta hangs back rather than rush in. 

The second beta is up again in a flash, his kick having done nothing but surprise, but it and the first beta freeze in the next second. He has one second to tense before something bulls into him, sending them both into the ground and tumbling over. He fights to get the thing off his back, manages a wild punch and a grunt from the newest enemy. Then he's flipped over and red eyes, _red eyes_ , fangs, claws, it's an Alpha, a real Alpha, not like him, and its power, its power is overwhelming, pressing him down and scaring him witless. The Alpha roars in his face and gets a hand around his throat; somehow he finds his hands yanking at the Alpha's wrist, and he's baring his teeth and growling at the other Alpha. But this is a token resistance. He knows deep-down the other Alpha is stronger than he is, but he won't go down without a fight. It's just that he has to warn....

Then the Alpha ducks downwards and fastens its teeth on his neck. He bucks at first, _off! off! off!_ screaming in his brain, but the Alpha bites down harder, not enough to break the skin, but enough to make him freeze. Breathing hard, he requires a second warning squeeze from the Alpha before he pries his fingers off the Alpha's wrist and spreads them against the ground, a third before he turns his neck, hating having to do it while he does. The Alpha rears up in a flash and before he can do anything to get out from under the Alpha or to defend himself, the Alpha's hand collides with his face and he's out.

:~:~:~:

He's in a room. A room trapped by mountain ash. Snarling, he lunges forward, only to be yanked to a stop. Restraints! He growls. Whoever has him caught will pay for this. Pay for keeping him from his goal.

Movement; sound. _Intruder_. He flashes his eyes, growls. Intruder: flash of surprise. A quick blip of the heartbeat, then settled. Slight trace of nerves. No fear. No fear? 

He turns his eyes back, sniffs. Familiar. Dark skin; bald head; scent of disinfectant, animals, traces of herbs. Veterinarian. Druid. Emissary. 

Not his goal, but connected. He stops the growling, uncurls his fingers from claw-like projections. No claws yet, still, but unnecessary. Stares at familiar/not familiar. Veterinarian, druid, emissary. Not a threat, not a comfort. Neutral, but uneasy. 

Noise spills from the emissary's mouth. Words? Questioning. Cautious, but calm. At home. Emissary's territory, yes. He is intruder. His shoulders hunch, he needs to make himself smaller. Apology for rudeness. 

The emissary seems to understand. More indecipherable noise from his mouth. Except: Hale. Yes. Hale. 

"Hale," he repeats. Noise is strange in his throat, rasping his throat. Not a growl, but not the way emissary speaks. Emissary startles, steps forward. He tenses. Attack? 

Hands, emissary's. Palms up. Relax of body. No attack. Surprise only. He settles. 

"Hale?" emissary asks. 

Yes. Hale. His goal. "Hun-ters." He bares his teeth. Murderers. "Here. Hale, not-safe." 

"The Hales are not safe?" Alarm, emissary's heartbeat increasing. Good. 

"Not-safe," he insists. "Ar..." The rasp gets tangled up at the back of his tongue. He snaps his teeth at himself. 

"Are?" Emissary asks. Hands lowered, not threat. Concerned. "The hunters are?" 

No. Not are. He must finish name. "Ghent," he grits. Not the true word, but as close as he can approximate, as he is now. "Ar-ghent." 

"Arghent?" 

"Yes." Close enough. If emissary thinks, will get name. "Ka-te. Ar-ghent." 

Emissary stills. "Kate Argent?" 

He snarls, bares teeth. His eyes film red, claws curl. _"Yes."_

"I...see." Emissary's heartbeat pounds once, twice, then steadies. Control is impressive. "Thank you for telling me. I will inform the Alpha, Talia Hale. I imagine she will want to speak to you as well." 

He preens. Goal: accomplished. He will keep an ear up, to make sure the emissary passes on the message, but for now he may rest. He has come far to get to this point; his strength is still depleted. 

He nods to the emissary, who seems to expect an answer to his last words. The floor is not comfortable, but he wiggles himself into a better position, minding the restraints, and closes his eyes. 

Emissary's footsteps exiting the room underscore the fade of his senses as he relinquishes consciousness.

:~:~:~:

_When he dreams, it's mainly of being encased in the earth. He can feel the worms wriggling in the soil all around him, how the air whooshes down the trails they leave. The earth has a lot of ways that it gains nutrients and lives, he knows, and that's one of them._

_Just as he knows there are more things in the earth than worms and moles._

_The bodies can't move, yet they cry out for him. They can't see, but they turn in his direction. They can't feel, yet they know injustice was committed. For all that they don't tell tales, the dead never do like injustice._

_He should be scrabbling, pushing against the earth, trying to get out. It’s what Peter did (Whoever “Peter” is - the name brings him feelings of dread, of being reluctantly impressed, and bone-deep discomfort - he doesn't want to cross “Peter's” path again). Yet he's pinned in place not by the earth or by anything physical, but by something more powerful._

_Red eyes peer back at him from the water that drips down on him. He blinks, sluggish, dirt dislodging from his eyelashes into his eyes, but the red's still there. He wants to scream, suddenly, to open his mouth and let rip, to know he can, but he doesn’t, can’t. He's still, unmoving, lying pinned and immobilized as the water drips, the red eyes stare, the dirt gets into his eyes, his nose, his mouth. When he closes his eyes against the dirt (or thinks he does – it’s hard to tell), the red follows. It always follows._

_Gaze not long into the abyss, lest the abyss also gaze into you._

****

**End Chapter One**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major Character Death: Papa Stilinski is killed in the root cellar of the nemeton. Scott is killed later, by an Alpha looking to get Scott's True Alpha powers. It doesn't quite work the way that Alpha thinks it will.
> 
> I posted this because a) it's about time I let my baby loose into the world, and b) because I noticed that the last time I posted anything on ao3 was in 2015. Yikes. I figured it was time to fix that, if only so people wouldn't assume I'd died or something. >__>
> 
> Also, although this is not a WIP, it _is_ undergoing some rewrites, so progress will be slow going. (More slow going than Time's Last Laugh?) Most of it is cosmetic changes, but others are huge overhauls. Please bear with me as I try to browbeat my perfectionist streak into submission _and_ coax myself into cutting the apron strings. *cries*


	2. Second Step, Or, Admiral Ackbar Never Had It This Hard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles discovers why this fic is titled the way it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You _guys_. Oh my God. O___O Dude. _Dude._ I… I seriously was not expecting this much of a response. I, I am seriously blown away by the comments, kudos, and number of hits on this story in the past week. _Duuuuuude._ Seriously, I have no words. I am speechless. The only thing I can say is thank you, thank you so much. You all have brightened my life and there’s nothing I can do to pay it back, except to give you the next chapter. I’ll be over here, clutching all of the kudos to my chest and sobbing ugly tears of happiness. Don’t mind me. *waves to get camera out of face* 
> 
> See endnotes for this chapter's warnings. As in last chapter, please take care of yourselves and use that back button if anything seems like it will be triggering. Mental health >>> fic, always. <3

He snaps awake with a jerk. _Danger, Will Robinson, danger!_ his brain screams at him. He looks around to see whatever’s pinging off his Stiles senses, but the room’s too dark. 

And then he hears them. Voices. 

Shrinking into the corner, he holds up his hands and waits. 

“…why didn’t he shift when we were fighting him? Or when Talia was?” This voice belongs to a male, a beta, judging by the timbre and resonance of his voice.

“I don’t know, Caleb,” a man replies. Stiles tenses; this is not the Alpha, but he’s strong. So strong that Stiles is basically fucked. There’s no way he’s getting out of here alive, not with the second man and the other beta in the way. “I don’t know any of the answers to your questions.” 

“Luckily for us, he’s awake, so he can provide us with them,” a third person drawls. 

Oh, no. No, no, no. Of course fucking Peter Hale is here. Of course. Stiles’s day has just gone down the tubes quicker than you could say “Molotov cocktail.” 

“I’ll do the talking, Caleb, Peter,” the second man – the one not an Alpha – says, distracting Stiles from the horribleness about to come. “Whatever happens, do not attack until I say so.” 

“Are you sure?” says the second voice – Caleb? “He did attack us on our territory. He might not respond to reason, Kurt.” 

“He’s a teenager, teenagers don’t know what reason is,” Peter snarks. 

At that, Stiles rolls his eyes. Good to know Peter’s still a snotty shithead. Apparently the fire didn’t damage that. 

Wait. The fire. Shit, shit, shit, what day is it? Is he – did the ritual – oh, fuck, he got captured by Peter working with the Alphas, didn’t he. Just his freakin’ luck. Of course, Peter somehow found out about the ritual and went to the Alphas behind their backs - that has to be how Stiles got here, wherever he is. If he doesn’t die from whatever they do to them, and if he gets out of here (which, let’s be real, he won’t, but he’d like to pretend), he is going to set Peter on fire for the second time and he is going to enjoy it. 

_CLICK!_

The sound of a doorknob being turned shoots through the room like a bullet. Gulping, Stiles presses himself into his corner even more, before changing his mind and sitting up. Whoever these assholes are, they aren’t going to find him hiding. He may be the puny human, but he’s not going down without a fight. 

He’s prepared to come face to face with Deucalion. Or someone who took up the mantle where Deucalion left off, another Alpha and their betas to fall into place to replace Kali, Ennis, Aiden and Ethan. Stiles doesn’t recognize the names that got said other than Peter’s – who the hell are Kurt and Caleb? And Talia? Whatever, they’re the new bad guys, he will probably get to know way too much about them very quickly. 

Ugh. 

Anyway. He’s prepared to see a band of leather-wearing cocky wolf supremacists, Peter on their heels with his smug smirk and smugger walk. Asshole. But the three people who do come through the door are definitely not Deucalion, and they definitely don’t look like wolf supremacists.

They’re not even wearing leather. 

“The fuck?” he splutters out, as his (interrogators? captors? kidnappers?) come into the room. The not-an-Alpha (the head Beta?) is a stocky, greying man with long hair pulled into a short ponytail. On his left is a tallish, lighter-skinned black dude with close-shaven hair. On his right is a twentyish white dude with dark brown hair and brilliant blue eyes. “Who the hell are you?”

The greying man bristles. “You watch your tone. You’re speaking to the Second of the Hale pack.” 

“Hey, Kurt,” the black dude says, placating, but Kurt levels him with a glare that has him backing off, hands raised. Kurt returns his gaze to Stiles, hostility practically radiating off of him. Stiles, like the monumental idiot he is, glares back. 

To his surprise, Kurt seems to strain to meet his gaze. After barely a second, the older dude looks away. Stiles feels a strange thrill, a bone-deep satisfaction that could be likened to triumph….

…before there’s a snap of fingers in his face. “Don’t get cocky, punk.” 

Stiles snaps to, his hackles raised and snarl already rumbling from his throat. Kurt doesn’t bare his teeth, but his claws are extended, and his eyes blaze electric blue, which only serves to piss Stiles off even more. 

“What do you want?” he spits. He reaches forward, but something – he takes a quick glance – shackles tug at his wrists – cowards. “If you’re gonna kill me, you picked a really brave way of doing it. Let me out of these shackles,” he rattles his shackles, “and we’ll see how easy I am to kill.” 

(Actually, on second thought, don’t let him out of these shackles. If he had his hands free, he’d be trying to wrap them around Kurt’s neck. There’s just something about the dude that really, really gets to him – to the point of ragey murder, beyond any level he has felt before. Yeah, seriously, don’t get him out of the shackles. Not only does this dude not look like he would be easy to wrangle, but he doesn’t think the other two betas would be willing to sit idly by. Just a thought.

In fact, he is reasonably certain that Kurt and the other betas would win in a drag-down, no-holds-barred showdown between them, and he would get killed. Yet he’s still eyeing the dude up and down, wondering if he had his bat, if it would break over Kurt’s head like it did Ennis’s, or if it would actually give him a good knock. 

So, uh, that’s not cool. He is not normally one for bare-handed violence, especially with werewolves. Yeah, he’s reckless, but not that reckless. Soooo…)

"Don't test me," Kurt retorts. “You’ve already upset the entire pack by coming into our territory without proper greeting protocol. You’re on a very short leash. I suggest you mind it.” 

The rage and urge to murder returns. “So even ‘Seconds’ aren’t above using dog jokes,” Stiles snorts, even as his brain screams at him _are you fucking insane? What the fuck are you doing??_ “Good to know.” 

Kurt’s jaw visibly ticks. Stiles smirks, only to have Kurt slam him against the wall, rumbling deep in his throat. Stiles snarls back, his hands reaching up to claw at Kurt’s arm, except, these fucking shackles, they are so fucking – 

“Kurt!” 

As one, both Stiles and Kurt look around. In the doorway is a woman, tall and regal; for a moment Stiles thinks it’s Kali. _But Kali’s dead,_ the part of his brain not very, very aware of Kurt’s arm like a bar across his throat points out. A blink, and the woman resolves into someone else. Tall and regal, yes, but wearing low-heeled heels and a flowery dress Lydia wouldn’t be caught dead in. 

“Talia.” Kurt jerks back from Stiles like he’s been electrocuted. Stiles, falling back against the wall gasping for air, thinks mutinously it’d be Kurt’s just desserts. Then his mind catches up with what he just said and oh, God, no, no electrocution for anybody, least of all werewolves. No. None. Nope. Just. No. 

“I told you,” the woman – Talia – says as she strides up to them, “not to talk to him until I had come back from Alan’s.”

The set of Kurt’s face shifts, almost like a flinch. “He woke up,” he says gruffly. “I was going to ask him his name –”

“What, no, you weren’t, dude, you basically came in here and attacked me on sight!” Stiles protests. 

One glance. One glance from her is all it takes. 

Her… aura, power, whatever washes over him, heavy and oppressive like a pillow over his face, cutting off his air circulation without moving. Oh God, he’s going to die. _This_ is an Alpha. Deucalion had nothing on her, Demon Wolf and all – Stiles flattens against the wall as far as his shackles will let him and stays there, knowing that his mouth, his stupid fucking mouth, has landed him in this, as usual. As usual, it's going to have to be his mouth to get him out of it again. 

"Look," he tries around the ache of his throat from stupid fucking Kurt’s arm over it. It's no surprise his voice comes out thready, but he refuses to admit that it's fear doing it, chooses to blame it on Kurt instead. 

"It's been a long couple of days for me,” he says. “I've been chased by an Alpha pack, then me and Lydia and Isaac did some magic ritual to – do something." 

Even in the supernatural world, “time travel” is not something you can say easily and have people believe you. Yeahhh, Stiles would call party foul, himself, 

“And next thing I know, I'm here, and I don’t remember how. I don't even know who you are, and _could you stop smothering me already_? Human here, can't heal like you can!" 

Surprise filters over the woman’s – Talia’s – face. Stiles gasps in a breath when her presence lightens, then falls away. He doesn't get to breathe long, however, before Talia steps right up to him. 

“If you’re human,” Talia begins, “then why do you smell and feel like an Alpha?”

"Huh? I smell like an Alpha? What are you talking about?" Stiles splutters. "Oh, God, one of them did something to me, didn't they? If Aiden somehow pissed on me, I'm going to have so many words with him he'll wish – well, I don't know what he'll wish, but he'll regret having done it!" 

Talia’s eyes narrow. “You’re lying.” 

"What? No, I'm not!" Stiles says, scrambling to try to get away as much as the shackles and the woman’s own presence will allow. "You're a werewolf, listen to my heartbeat and see for yourself!" 

Talia’s nostrils flare, but she does as Stiles asks: her gaze goes distant and concentrating, and for a second the press of her will against Stiles’s chest lessens...

Waiting for her to get it, Stiles gets the sudden hysterical urge to laugh. Nothing about this is remotely funny, but he's just reminded of Derek in their early days, when neither trusted the other as far as he could throw him. (Of course, Derek was capable of throwing Stiles a lot further than Stiles could throw Derek, but that was beside the point.) Derek loomed in much the same way that Talia is doing –

His laughter dies when he remembers. Oh. Yeah. There's that. Derek isn’t here to loom over him anymore, or do anything. He and Cora disappeared somewhere away from Beacon Hills, not even a goodbye. Stiles tries not to think about that, how much that actually really hurt. Instead, he looks up into Talia’s red eyes as they clear, and suddenly he has other things to worry about.

"What – what's your name?" he bursts out, a horrifying suspicion collecting in the pit of his stomach. Now that he's looking, though, he can see it: This woman doesn't have Derek's eyes or his propensity for perpetual stubble, but the way that she stares at Stiles, the way she holds herself, the jawline, god, even the color of her hair….

"You're Derek's mom, aren't you?" Stiles says half in despair, half in resignation. Then his eyes widen as he actually thinks about it. "Oh, my God, you're Talia Hale!" 

_You're the one I'm supposed to warn about Kate_ , he means to say, but Mrs. Hale interrupts him. 

"How do you know my name?" she says, sharp. The press of her power that had been lessening returns in full force, forcing Stiles up against the wall. The red of her eyes are freaking glowing now, and well, crap, this is not the way Stiles had imagined this would go. 

Well, at least he knows the ritual worked. But now Stiles has the image of Mrs. Hale burning up in the Hale house, her eyes neon red as around her, her family burns while she’s helpless to do anything, and oh, God, oh, God, he feels sick, he’s going to be sick. 

“Gonna,” he tries to say, but then the bile hits and he’s bending over as much as he can past the shackles’ grip on his wrists. The contents of his stomach are yellow and white, he notes in a distant part of his brain, and he thinks that’s an undigested piece of fruit from a fruit cup. (Why a fruit cup? He doesn’t remember eating any fruit cups lately.) (He hopes it was a peach one, he loves those.) 

It doesn’t take long for him to recede to dry-retching, and ugh, he feels stupidly gross that he can’t wipe off his mouth afterwards. Freaking shackles. 

Mrs. Hale is standing beyond the puddle of vomit, said puddle almost touching her high heel. The expression on her face is… kind of hilarious. As shitty as Stiles feels, he can’t help but think Derek’s mom looks like a cat confronted by water. 

Then his brain reminds him that he has a job to do, and he stands bolt upright in the shackles, startling Mrs. Hale, who steps back. But Stiles can’t focus on that, he has to warn them, he has to tell them – 

“Listen, you’ve got to listen to me,” he says urgently. “There’s someone who’s going to –” He means to say _kill you_ but his throat, like an asshole, locks up on him. “Kill you” comes out as the very eloquent “hrrkgk!” He tries to keep speaking but nothing is coming out properly, it’s gibberish and now he can’t breathe, he’s choking, he can’t stop –

He gets a huge lungful of air at last, but he’s so rattled from choking that it doesn’t really do any good. Instead his lungs scream for more air while blackness crowds at the edge of his vision, his heart pounds faster and faster. _Oh my god, I’m having a panic attack_ , he thinks. Shit, shit, shit, no, don’t think about it, don’t think about Dad, _don’t think about him._

Oh, God. He can’t stop seeing his dad in the root cellar, eyes locked on Stiles’s, and the cascade of dirt. Allison’s worried expression and Mrs. McCall’s, as Allison’s dad tried to poke around and nearly got himself killed, too. And it’s all Stiles’s fault, he killed him and he killed his mom, and killed Scott. He’s killed everyone he loves, oh Jesus, he’s shaking stupidly hard, this is a bad one, the worst he’s had in years, oh God, oh God, oh God – 

Someone touches him on the shoulder. Breath jerking, he flails backwards, hitting his head against the wall. Flinching at the ensuing yell, which does nothing but crank the knot in his chest tighter, he flattens along the wall, scrambles away from the people crouched over him, until he hits the very end of the shackles. There, he collapses, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms tightly around them. 

“Let me handle this,” someone says in a firm voice. It sounds like Deaton. Oh, God, just let Stiles disappear into the ground. Mrs. Hale, Kurt, Peter, and whoever the last dude is, and now Deaton can all see him shaking apart. They’ll never listen to him now, not after seeing him this weak. Goddamnit, not even a full day on the job and you’ve fucked it up. Way to go, Stilinski, oh. my. God. You had one job. One. Job. And you couldn’t even –

“Young man. Listen to me. Are you listening? Nod if you can.” Deaton sounds reassuring, familiar. 

He reaches out a hand to Stiles’s shoulder; Stiles instinctively arches away from it. “All right, I won’t touch,” Deaton says, still in that steady, firm voice. “We’ll just sit here until you tell me in some way that you can hear me.” 

_I can hear you,_ he thinks. He tries for a nod, but through his gasping, he doesn’t know if the movement carried over enough. He’ll have to talk. His mouth is already open, so all he has to do is make sound with it. Easy, right? Ha. 

Finally, after several attempts, he chokes out, “I – I’m listening.” 

“Good,” Deaton says. “That’s very good. Now look at me. I’m going to introduce myself. My name is Alan Deaton. What’s your name?” 

Stiles would laugh, except for the part where he can’t breathe. He’s having freaking small talk in the middle of a panic attack, his _life_. “S- S- Stiles.”

“Stiles? That’s your name?” Deaton asks. Stiles’s mirth drops away. Right, he’s in another timeline, this guy isn’t the same Deaton, this Deaton doesn’t know who he is. Fuck. 

“Focus.” Stiles doesn’t, he doesn’t jerk, really, at Deaton’s stern tone, but he does start, sort of, but Deaton has the grace to wait until Stiles is registering again before asking, “Do you know what’s happening to you right now?” 

Well, yeah, he’s had so many he can’t not know what’s happening to him. “Y-yeah,” Stiles gets out, when Deaton’s presence grows expectant (how he can tell that, he’s going to have to think about another time when his heart isn’t pounding so hard he thinks he’s going to die, Jesus it’s so fast it seems it’s gotta explode and Stiles doesn’t want to die, he _really really does not want to die_ ). “I – I’m having a p-panic attack.” 

“Good,” Deaton says, cutting through Stiles’s racing thoughts. “Then you know what we’re going to do. I’m going to ask you to focus on your breathing. Can you do that for me, Stiles?” 

“You’ve got to – you’ve got to tell them,” Stiles says, gasping loudly. “Deaton –”

“I will, once you focus on your breathing,” Deaton comes back. His face is coming into focus now, and even faced with a panicking Stiles, he’s still Zen, still calm. He looks, sounds exactly like the Deaton Stiles left behind, even though he’s got to be seven years younger.

Stiles latches on to that, he grabs onto that as fiercely as he can. Logically, he knows that he’s not really in any danger, but it’s hard to think about that right in the middle of it. Deaton is real, he’s here and not part of Stiles’s ghosts, and most importantly he’s outside of Stiles’s head, and that’s where Stiles really needs to be right now. 

So he focuses on his breathing, in. And out. In. And out. Iiiin. Aaaand out. 

“Good,” Deaton says, when Stiles’s breathing isn’t going so fast. “Do you feel like you can talk now?” 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, forcing himself to breathe calmly. “There’s a hunter,” he says. He’ll admit to tensing in anticipation of choking, but nothing happens. No choking, no throat closing up, still breathing in. And out. Stiles is going to cautiously say this is a success.

That’s when, of course, Kurt bursts in with, “What’s this about a hunter?” 

Jolting, Stiles loses concentration and starts sucking in too much oxygen again. Deaton says, still calm but with an edge, “Not now, Kurt, please. Wait until I have this young man settled before you try to ask him questions.” 

But Stiles is growling, glaring at Kurt. Kurt stares back, holds his gaze for longer this time, his eyes bleeding neon blue. The oppressing feeling of power comes back again, but this time it’s not nearly enough to bowl him over, not like Mrs. Hale’s did; Stiles is not impressed. He’s faced down any number of Alphas, from Peter to Derek, hell from Kali to Deucalion himself. Unless Mrs. Hale shifts and attacks him, Stiles isn’t going to back down. Is he scared right now? Sure, but he’s still not going to back down. 

“Quit it, pup,” Kurt rumbles. “You’re not Alpha enough to take me _and_ my pack on.” 

“I keep telling you,” Stiles grits out. Seriously, what is with this growling thing? He’s not a werewolf, he would have noticed if he started turning into one. “I’m not an Alpha.”

“Gentlemen,” Deaton attempts.

“Kurt,” Mrs. Hale shoots a look Kurt’s way. “I know he smells like an Alpha – ”

Stiles yells with frustration. “I can’t smell like an Alpha, I’m _human_ ,” he argues, as much as he can with his breath still shaky. Although, now he’s remembering… Lydia had said something. Something about Scott being a True Alpha. About power by might or something like that.

He has the sneaking suspicion he really doesn’t want to remember what she said. 

Mrs. Hale turns back to him, her eyes no longer red. She regards him for a moment. “I don’t have an answer for that,” she says, finally. “Even a new Alpha should be able to recognize that something has changed, beyond any capacity for denial.” 

“You think I’m in denial?” Stiles gapes. He takes in Mrs. Hale’s serious expression, looks over at Deaton, who only looks back with raised eyebrows. “Oh, my God,” he drops his head into his hand and starts to laugh.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says to Deaton’s sharp look and Mrs. Hale’s frown. “This is just so ridiculous. Me in shackles, Talia Hale, Derek’s mom, glaring at me,” Holy God, Derek’s _mom_. Somehow Stiles hadn’t realized how real Mrs. Hale would be, or how she wouldn’t take him at face value. How did he even get into this?

Oh yeah, a time ritual. There’s the sobering thought he needed five thoughts ago. (Can he say that, five thoughts ago? How would anybody be able to tell time if they measured it by thoughts? They’d have to be telepathic or something, and once he would have thought that would be a cool superpower, being telepathic. Not so much anymore. He has learned to be careful what he wishes for, both because _werewolves oh my god_ and shit, _werewolf hunters, oh my_ God.)

“Yes, about that. How _do_ you know Derek?” Mrs. Hale’s eyes are piercing. “Last I knew, Derek didn’t know anybody from another pack named Stiles, especially not an – ”

Deaton, next to him, gives her a warning look. Stiles barely registers it, though. Instead, he’s thinking, _fuck, what’s the cover story he and Lydia came up with for knowing Derek?_ Shit, shit, shit, they had gone over it thousands of times, too, until even Lydia was satisfied he had it down. _Lydia._

“Talia,” Deaton says. “Don’t you think Stiles has been through enough already? He’s just suffered a panic attack, he’s in no fit state to answer questions.” 

Mrs. Hale rears back in surprise. She looks from Deaton to Stiles, who, yeah, has to admit he’s still feeling shaky and not at all up for an interrogation, no way, Jose. 

For the first time, Stiles sees Mrs. Hale falter. “You’re right, Alan. Here, let me get some food for him. Caleb?” 

“On it.” The black dude is there and gone. Stiles would bitch about werewolf speed, so unfair for the rest of we mere mortals, except the humiliation and the embarrassment is setting in. 

Ugh, not only did have a panic attack, he had one in front of _Talia Hale_ , and jeezus, now would be a great time for the earth to swallow him whole. Barring that, he’ll settle for a safe rock and crawl under it, where he’ll never emerge. Not even for food, he’ll rig up a pulley system or something so the food can come down to him. Jeezus _Christ_.

Speaking of safety. “Uh, any chance you can let me out of these shackles? I, uh, would feel hella lot better if you’d take them off. More like a person, y’know? Less like a dog in the yard, if you know what I’m talking about.” 

Mrs. Hale’s expression, which had been hovering on the edge of concerned (for him? Seriously?) sours. “If you promise not to harm me or any of mine,” with emphasis on _any_ , “and you promise to stop making dog jokes. We are human, too.” 

Oh, ouch. Um, awkward much? “Yeah, yeah, I can totally do that,” Stiles says. “The dog jokes are a defense mechanism, anyway, against the horrible nightmare my life has become. I mean, look at me! I’m only seventeen, and I’ve already gone through so many things I really, really shouldn’t have. And Scott – ”

Oh. Scott. For a moment, he had actually forgotten about Scott. His stomach clenches. Some friend he is, Scott’s only been dead less than two months and he’s already forgetting him. Fuck.

A touch to his shoulder makes him look up. Deaton and Mrs. Hale both are looking at him with knitted eyebrows. Shit. 

“I’m fine,” he tells them, but he can tell they don’t believe him. “So, uh, the shackles?” 

Mrs. Hale and Deaton glance at each other. A quick glance, but Stiles can read the meaning loaded into it. Great, more intervention type stuff he’s going to have to deal with. Hopefully he can get Kate Argent to show up and distract them before they do anything about it. Then he can slip away and not have to deal with their pity and well-meaning concern on his part. As if it ever worked out for him. 

Mrs. Hale clears her throat. “I’m still waiting for your promise.” 

“Oh, right.” Stiles shakes himself vigorously. “I promise not to hurt you or anybody in the Hale pack.” 

“And…?” Mrs. Hale presses. 

“Oh, yeah, and not to make any more dog jokes,” he finishes. “Although I might need some practice at that, my brain to mouth filter is like Swiss cheese at the best of times. Worst of times, pffft, forget it.” 

Mrs. Hale raises an eyebrow. “I suggest you start practicing now. If nothing else, Kurt will make sure you don’t forget.”

Stiles looks over at Kurt, who scowls at him. Back to Mrs. Hale, he says, “Heh, thanks. Thanks a lot.” 

She quirks her eyebrows nonchalantly. “I’ll let Deaton open your shackles.” 

“Uh, okay?” Stiles watches Mrs. Hale produce a key out of literally nowhere and hand it to Deaton. She then backs off, her heels clacking quietly on the concrete of the basement floor. 

The farther away Mrs. Hale steps, the more Stiles relaxes, shedding tension he didn’t know he was carrying. Deaton waits until Mrs. Hale is five or six steps away and shows no signs of stopping before he gets to work on the shackles. 

Deaton looks at Stiles thoughtfully as he unlocks first one manacle, then the other. Stiles hisses as the feeling comes back into his arms, holds his hands close to his chest. Huge bruises circle each wrist, deep purple and throbbing with Stiles’s pulse. Great, more ugly body decoration to cover up. Guess it’s a good thing Stiles prefers long-sleeved shirts anyway. 

The leg irons (yes, actual leg irons. Can anyone say overkill? Seriously? _Seriously?_ ) _clink_ as they open, _clang_ as they fall away from Stiles’s ankles. Stiles stumbles when he tries to stand, would have fallen if Deaton hadn’t caught him. His ears burn as Deaton steadies him; he tries to pull away, but Deaton grabs his arm again. 

Good thing, too, for suddenly Stiles is feeling light-headed and his stomach is pinching, _ow_ , like he’s never fed it and oh, food sounds really good right now. He would have thought he wouldn’t want it, considering oh, yeah, _he threw up,_ but nope, his stomach is pretty clear on what it wants.

Footsteps herald the arrival of yet another person to the scene. Stiles lifts his head just as the black dude from earlier appears, carrying a plate that’s literally steaming. “Here’s the leftovers from yesterday, Talia. I heated them up for him.” 

“Thanks, Caleb.” Mrs. Hale’s smile is an uptick of the corner of her mouth, but it goes a long way towards smoothing the concern lines off her face. Caleb grins back, his entire face lighting up. 

But Stiles’s attention is captured by the food, the literal aroma and heat steam trail coming off of it, and oh God, just get it in his mouth now. 

He has enough presence of mind to wait for Caleb to back off from the plate before he pounces, but after that it’s all. Freaking. Hands. Off. 

“Whoa,” he hears Caleb say, “I think you just, like, set a world record or something.” 

“Heh, well you know what, I am a growing boy,” he says through his mouthful. “Feel free to call Guinness World Records, though, I’ve always wanted to be in there.” 

Caleb snorts. So does Peter, but Stiles is emphatically not thinking about him. Not until he can freak out in peace, incidentally not where apex predators can hear his heartbeat and make judgy mcjudgerson comments about it. 

Stiles may thrive on trouble, but he doesn’t need that level of interest in his life, thanks.

(He’s so hungry, he even eats the green beans. Yeah, he eats the veggie burgers and the veggie pizza and the whole-wheat crap he forces on his dad, but that’s for solidarity’s sake, okay? Come on, he’s a seventeen-year-old guy. When they don’t apply to his dad, vegetables are, like, voodoo as far as he’s concerned. He never claimed he wasn’t a hypocrite.) 

When the whole plate is cleared, crumbs and all, he pushes it away. He feels better, but still shaky from the panic attack (even if he did get all up in a werewolf’s grill – and not in the sexy way – right after. He’s torn between thinking _oh, my God what was I thinking?_ And _oh my God I am so badass, I should get a plaque that says Stiles Stilinski, Legitimate Badass_. Obviously, he prefers thinking the latter, so he’s gonna roll with it). What would make everything a lot better is either something to do or a nap. Actually, scratch something to do, a nap sounds like the best thing ever. 

Looking up at the adults nearby, all of whom are looking back with frank stares, Stiles has the feeling he’s not going to get any sleep for a while yet. 

Great. 

“You done?” Caleb comes over to inspect his plate. “Man, you cleaned out even the green beans. Growing boy like you likes green beans?” 

“Pffft,” Stiles says by way of answer. 

Caleb smirks, rolls his eyes. “Hey, I feel you, dude, green beans aren’t my favorite, either.” 

As Caleb turns away, Stiles blurts, “Hey, uh. Thanks. For the food.” He nods to the plate in Caleb’s hands. 

Caleb raises his eyebrows, why, Stiles doesn’t know, but jerks his chin, says, “You’re welcome, man,” and leaves. When he passes by Mrs. Hale and Kurt, their shoulders relax, the tension in the room eases a little. Deaton shoots Mrs. Hale a knowing look, but doesn’t comment. 

Instead, in eerie synchronization, he and Mrs. Hale both turn to Stiles, and yeeeeeeeep, that nap isn’t happening anytime soon. 

Mrs. Hale crosses her arms. “What are we going to do with you, Stiles?” 

“Uh, not hurt me?” Stiles tries for a winning smile. 

Again, that exchange of looks between Mrs. Hale and Deaton. “No one’s going to hurt you,” Mrs. Hale says. She ignores Kurt’s snort. “Not unless you do something unwise, like attack my pack.” 

“Yeah, no,” Stiles mutters. “That would just end with me in the ground.” 

“That’s right.” Mrs. Hale’s look is serious. Deadly serious, Stiles would say, and the look holds his eyes like a compulsion. “The pack is everything.” 

For some reason, Stiles is getting the feeling Mrs. Hale is testing him. She doesn’t feel like she’s threatening him, not like before when she was totally pulling the Alpha whammy on him. Now it’s more like she’s warning him, letting Stiles know what’s up. The thing is, he already knows. He did wake up in shackles because he trespassed onto the Hale pack territory (how? He doesn’t even remember how he got here, for Christ’s sake) and Mrs. Hale did act all suspicious of him (at least, up until Stiles introduced himself by having a massive panic attack, great first impression there, Stilinski). It’s not like it was hard to tell he wasn’t exactly everyone’s favorite class clown, or anything. 

The point is, Stiles knows. He’s been in that position, is still in that position. The position where your family is before everything else, before school, before, uh, biological family (he flinches at that thought for so many reasons), before even himself. It’s been like that for over a year, and seriously, it’s the drive to protect that family – protect Scott – that’s brought him into this situation. 

He knows what it’s like, and it’s not like he can hold a grudge against Mrs. Hale for it. He would have done exactly the same thing. “I know,” he says quietly, still caught by Mrs. Hale’s gaze. They stare at each other for a moment that stretches unto forever, Mrs. Hale staring into Stiles’s soul, it feels like, while Stiles awkwardly tries not to fidget. Then she nods, and yeah, she’d definitely been testing him. 

He’s not entirely sure if he passed. 

With his usual gift for timing, Deaton steps up. “Come on, Stiles. There’s a conversation we need to have, and I suspect,” dry as dust, “you won’t want to have it here.” 

“Hell no,” Stiles says, more vehemently than he expects. Deaton only smiles that annoying cryptic smile of his (oh, God, even now he has that stupid smile? Jesus, how long has Deaton been doing that? Does he practice in the mirror every day or something?), and holds out his hand. It takes Stiles waaaay too long to figure out it’s for him, to haul him up. When he’s on his feet, Deaton places a steadying hand on his shoulder, which, yeah, he probably needs it. 

Mrs. Hale keeps an eye on them as they shuffle towards the door of the basement, but doesn’t hover, for which Stiles is ridiculously grateful. People who hover are the worst, take Derek and his weird hangup with leaning over Stiles while he’s doing research…. 

Yeahhh, backpedaling away from that thought. He focuses on putting one foot in front of the other, cheers internally when he gets to the door. Of course, then there’s a freaking tunnel on the other side, which means an uphill climb through yet more creepy locales before seeing daylight, so to speak. 

Great. Wonderful. Absolutely fantastic. 

Muttering, “As if I didn’t have enough nightmare fuel already, thanks,” under his breath, Stiles starts up the long, long tunnel. Here’s hoping at the end of it he’ll never have an excuse to come back. Ever.

****

**End Chapter Two**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Description of a panic attack. Excessive, extremely excessive, use of sarcasm. Lack of self-preservation instincts and a lot of self-loathing, as well as a hefty case of survivor’s guilt (which, tbh, is situation normal for Stiles. T_T). 
> 
> Sorry for how long this took to get up, I had planned to get this up a week after I posted the first chapter, but I, er, underestimated how badly I was going to freak out over exams and final exams. So, uh, here we are, three weeks later. *eh-hem* At least it’s here! Also, the original version of this chapter was twice as long, so I split it in half and will post the other half (now chapter three) a week from now, barring any unforeseen Real Life Hijinks. 
> 
> And yes, _Captain America: The First Avenger_ came out in July 2011. So Scott and Stiles absolutely would have gone to see it, and would have added him to their lunch table discussion of which superhero was better, Superman, Batman, or Spiderman?: Round 2,824. Personally, I think that Cap could take down Batman and Spiderman (although not without a bit of trouble), but Superman could crush Cap with a finger (not that he’d want to). Cap’s pretty smart, though, he might figure out Superman’s powers come from the Earth’s sun… especially if Tony Stark and J.A.R.V.I.S. were helping him….


	3. Third Step, Or, Where's Nightcrawler When You Need Him?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles meets Laura.

The tunnel’s not as long as he thought it would be, thank God. When he emerges aboveground, however, he has to clap a hand over his eyes. 

“Ow!” Stiles moans. “Ow, ow, ow!” 

“Stiles?” he hears Mrs. Hale ask. 

“It’s all right, Talia,” Deaton says, amused. “He’s not used to the light.” 

“Stupid sun,” Stiles adds. “Sending its evil rays to hurt me. What did I ever do to you, huh?!” 

“You’ve been in a basement for two days,” Deaton says dryly. “Give your eyes time to adjust.” 

“Two days?!” Stiles squawks. 

“Two days,” Deaton agrees. He must see Stiles stiffen, for when next he speaks, he sounds wary. “Is there somewhere you need to be, Stiles?” 

“Uhh, noooo,” Stiles says slowly. Technically, he’s right where he should be for this part of the plan, but that’s two days wasted he could have used to look for Kate Argent. She could be planning to start the fire any time now, holy God. “When’s the date?” 

Now Deaton sounds skeptical. “The 12th.” 

“Of January?!” Shit, shit, shit, Lydia was supposed to have sent him to the first of the month! He was supposed to have a whole month to convince the Hales about Kate, then set up a patrol so he could be there when Kate appeared. Shit, shit, shit the plan has already gone to shit. Why does the plan always go to shit before it begins? 

“No, of November.” 

“November?” Stiles blinks, his brain grinding to a halt. Ooookaaaaay, that isn’t part of the plan, but honestly, he wouldn’t be surprised if something went wonky with the ritual. Of all the rants Lydia had gone on during their research, it’s the ones about “magic isn’t an exact science” and “of course there’s no literature on banshees” that still ring in his ears. 

Okay. Okay, this is still doable. New plan, go. First, what are the facts? He’s got roughly two months before the fire happens, until the end of January. From what bits and pieces he got from the Hale House fire file, Kate was around for a few months before the fire, so she’s probably still here. She may or may not be planning the fire at this point, he can’t exactly remember when she talked to fucking Harris about accelerants (despite the fact that he’s gone over that file a thousand times at this point). But he’s got time now, he can figure out what to do from here. 

He takes his hand from his eyes to rake it absently over his newly shorn buzzcut, relishing in the sting of his hair against his hand. He looks up to look at – something –

“Whoa.” 

The Hale House rises tall and majestic in front of him. It’s three floors and has a covered porch like the house he knew, but other than that it’s nothing he would have been able to imagine. For one, it’s whole, like, the roof is still there and a color other than charred grey. For two, the house is actually pretty, like it looks like someone’s keeping it up. There’s a garden on Stiles’s side of the house of all sorts of flowers he can’t name, and there’s even a sign that says VEGETABLE GARDEN – STAY OUT next to it that has Stiles speechless. A vegetable garden! At the Hale House! Who would have thunk? 

The best part about the new – old – Hale House, though, is that it looks like there’s life in it. He’s not just talking about the activity he can see behind the curtains – who is that? She looks Latina – but the overall impression that people live here, are alive here. 

He has to admit, he was not expecting that when he traveled back in time, but just for this, he’s glad he did. 

“I see you like my house,” Mrs. Hale says behind him. 

He’s used to being crept up on, thanks Derek, but the foot he clears would say otherwise. “Don’t _do_ that,” he complains to Mrs. Hale’s raised eyebrows. “God, you’re just as bad as – ” _Derek_ , he only barely manages not to say. Gahh. Boy, that’s already getting old, not being able to talk about Derek, especially not to Derek’s mom. 

…Dude. He’s never going to be able to get over that. Derek has a _mom_. Like, objectively, and thanks to Peter, Stiles knew Derek didn’t spring up from the ground, all appearances aside, but seeing it is totally knocking his world sideways. Duuuuude. That’s so weird. 

“As bad as…?” Mrs. Hale’s tone is suspicious, verges on dangerous. 

“Uh, as bad as my cousin Miguel!” Stiles says, so smoothly. “He, uh, liked to sneak up on me all the time, too.” 

Mrs. Hale doesn’t really look like she believes him, but that’s okay, Stiles doesn’t plan on talking about “Cousin Miguel” all that much anyway. Although thinking back to that memory of Danny’s dazed expression does bring a smirk to his face. 

Just then, a girl dashes up to Mrs. Hale. “Mom!” she bursts out, “you let him out already?” 

“Hey!” Stiles objects. 

Mrs. Hale casts Stiles a look, turns back to the girl. “Yes,” she places a hand on the girl’s shoulder, “and he mentioned something about a hunter.” 

“What?” The girl, who, huh, actually looks like Mrs. Hale, pales. 

Mrs. Hale nods, turns her to face Stiles. “Stiles, since you already know Derek somehow,” her eyebrow raises again, pointedly, “you should already know my eldest. In case you don’t, this is –”

“Laura.” The name slips from Stiles without his conscious input. 

Laura Hale, Derek’s sister, whose body Stiles and Scott found half of in Beacon Hills Preserve a year and a lifetime ago, looks… nothing like he would have imagined her, had he spent the effort (which he hadn’t, and he feels so guilty about it now, god, that was Derek and Cora’s sister, he really is an asshole). She’s tall, like every Hale ever, with dyed black hair and brown eyes. But that’s about all he can tell under the heavy emo makeup she’s wearing, the zillion piercings all over her face, and the absolutely godawful, like seriously? Seriously?, Goth clothes she’s sporting. 

This is _Laura_? 

“What? Do I know you?” Laura looks him up and down. It’s not like the kind of look Lydia used to give him, where he was lower than the dirt on her shoe (in retrospect, _dude_ , that had not felt good), but her half-baffled look is humiliating, all the same. 

The look she shoots Mrs. Hale, all incredulous eyebrows, doesn’t help. 

Mrs. Hale offers Laura a smile that Stiles thinks looks wry. It’s a good look on her, less stiff and more relaxed. She looks more like a person, less like she’s going to bite Stiles’s head off. “Laura, this is Alpha Stiles…” 

“Uh, Vrilinski,” Stiles offers, when he realizes what Mrs. Hale is waiting for. “Stiles… Vrilinski.” Thank God he had thought that someone would ask for a last name when he and Lydia’d been planning. Lydia had pointed out that he couldn’t use his real surname when he traveled back, as someone inevitably would go to his dad (oh, God, his dad is alive. He has to swallow past the painful urge to ditch Mrs. Hale and Laura and go see him right now). 

“Vrilinski?” Laura wrinkles her nose. “What kind of last name is that?” 

“Uh, the kind that’s way more memorable than ‘Hale’?” Stiles shoots back. Then he remembers Mrs. Hale. “Uh…” 

Mrs. Hale, who looks like she’s five hundred percent done. “This is Alpha Stiles Vrilinski,” she finishes. “Treat him with respect, Laura.” 

“Uh, that’s okay,” Stiles says, uncomfortable. “You don’t have to – and hey! I’m not an Alpha!” 

The look Mrs. Hale sends his way says loud and clear her opinion of that. Rude. 

“Don’t frown at my mom like that.” 

Stiles transfers his frown to Laura. She’s staring at him challengingly, her posture not quite tense but with the impression that that could change the second she wants it to. The hell? “What’s your damage?” 

Oops, there goes the full-on tense position. “What’s yours?” Laura returns, eyes flashing amber. 

At first, Stiles is taken aback. Then his brain gets into motion, and he narrows his eyes. Now, he’s not a werewolf, and he’s painfully aware that he’s seventeen and probably doesn’t look like someone could hold his own in a fight. Especially not against a werewolf. But he’s also aware that he’s been essentially held prisoner on Hale land for two days, and he doesn’t know about you, but that’s not exactly what he’d call “hospitable.” And now Laura wants to fight him? 

Rude. Very rude. 

“Laura.” Huh, look at that. Mrs. Hale uses the exact same tone on Laura that she did him. Guess the Alpha whammy isn’t restricted just to Stiles’s particular brand of ill-advised humor. Good to know. “Inside, now.” 

Laura shoots another glare at Stiles, but turns on her heel and stomps off without another word. Stiles watches her go, his jaw hanging open. Damn, he has got to learn how to do that. He has visions of Jackson, if the jerk ever comes back, and Isaac cringing from him using that. Well, not Isaac so much. As much as Stiles hates to admit it, the guy’s been through enough already. But Jackson? Oh, hell yes. He still hasn’t gotten even for everything the asshole has done to him over the years. 

“Is that an Alpha thing?” he bursts out, gesturing to Laura’s retreating back. “Like, you growl and the betas jump? Or is that a Mom thing only with some extra _oomph_ , because let me tell you, Scott’s mom has the same thing,” he catches the look Mrs. Hale is giving him, “and that is clearly not up for discussion right now. Shutting up.” 

Mrs. Hale raises her eyebrow at Stiles – is that amusement lurking in her eyes? – then nods her head sideways. “Well, if we’re going to talk, we may as well do it somewhere comfortable.” She turns away and moves towards the Hale House, her heels sinking into the grass as she goes. Stiles gapes after her. 

“Don’t worry, Stiles. Talia may seem standoffish, but she’s fair. She’ll let you say your piece.” 

Stiles whirls. Deaton looks back at him, Zen master as always. “Holy God!” Stiles yelps. “Where did you come from?” 

“I never left,” Deaton smiles. “Talia does have a way of taking up all the attention around her, doesn’t she?”

His heart still rabbiting in his ears, Stiles takes a gulp to calm down. “Uh, I guess.” 

“If it’s any consolation,” Deaton motions towards the house, “it’s not in my job description to attract notice. Shall we go in?” 

“Uh, sure. Wait, what is in your job description, anyway?” Like, sure, Deaton’s a veterinarian, and also a Druid, or emissary, whatever, but what does that mean? Other than spouting off bullshit advice and never being anywhere when Stiles and Scott need him, anyway. 

Deaton gives him a placid look. “I’d think you’d know, since you don’t seem surprised by my being here.” There’s an odd note to Deaton’s tone, like maybe he means something else by his statement, but Stiles can’t figure out what it is. 

“Cut me some slack,” Stiles groans. “I’ve only been in this for a year. Bestiaries and Google fu only does so much before the sheer fucked-up-ness gets to you. Also, don’t think I haven’t noticed you didn’t answer the question about your job description.” 

He scoffs at the look Deaton offers him, _I don’t know what you’re talking about_ , is about to go on when both Mrs. Hale and Laura freeze, their heads going up, noses in the air. Stiles jumps as someone growls behind him; it’s Kurt, half-shifted. 

“Alan,” Mrs. Hale says tersely. “The wards, then Cora, Iñez, and Juan. Laura, guard our… guest.” She’s off before Stiles so much as blinks, bounding off into the woods in that weird four-legged lope. It should look ridiculous on a woman with a floral print dress (it certainly does on Scott and Derek), but on Mrs. Hale it really, really doesn’t. 

“What’s going on? Who’re Iñez and Juan?” Stiles asks. Laura ignores him, spinning to follow Mrs. Hale.

“No, wait,” Stiles makes to grab Laura by the shoulder, misses. Laura stops in her tracks a second later, anyway; Stiles has to skid to avoid knocking into her. He looks up to see Mrs. Hale’s red gaze in their direction, then as she looks towards the woods and bounds away again. 

“Mom!” Laura shouts after her. “You can’t expect me to – Mom!”

Mrs. Hale doesn’t turn back. Laura looks after her, her fists clenched. 

Kurt rockets past him, still with that growl, followed by Caleb, also partially-shifted. Stiles waves at them wildly, willing them to stop before they can take off after Mrs. Hale. “Hey, hey, wait, what’s going on, where’s the fire?” 

As soon as it comes out of his mouth, Stiles is cringing. Really, Stil- Vrilinski? What is with your lack of thinking, oh my God, tasteless much?

Kurt and Caleb aren’t paying attention. They bull ahead, dirt and leaves flying up in their wake. Stiles flings his arms up to protect his eyes, lowers them to find that they’re gone. Completely, like they were never there except for the trail of leafy destruction behind them. 

“Oh, come on!” he complains. “You couldn’t have taken five seconds to answer my question?!” 

“No. Obviously,” Laura snaps.

God, this is _just_ like dealing with Derek. Stiles turns to Laura, glare fixed into place. “Excuse me for wanting to know what the hell is going on, asshole,” he grinds out. “It’s not like I’ve been left in the dark too many times or anything. You know what happens then? Everything goes horribly wrong!” 

“What would you know about everything going horribly wrong?” Laura scoffs, her piercings making her scowl even worse. (Stiles has to take a moment to wonder if the piercings get in the way during the shift. Do they hurt, or do they pop out every time? Or do they just disappear thanks to werewolf voodoo, just like Derek’s eyebrows?) 

He opens his mouth to educate Laura on exactly how much he knows about everything going horribly wrong, when Deaton interrupts. 

“I’ll go set the wards,” he cuts in smoothly. “Laura, try not to antagonize Stiles too much. He’s had a rough day so far.” 

Laura growls, but subsides. Stiles watches forlornly as Deaton heads off, abandoning him to the yellow glare of Laura’s gaze. “Uh, so, this isn’t awkward or anything.” 

“Whatever.” Laura turns away, crosses her arms. 

“So… what is going on?” 

“Are you serious?” Laura whirls on him, has her finger pushed up hard against his sternum – _ow_ – and jabs. “Are you seriously doing this right now?” 

“Dude! What is your problem?” Stiles yelps. “All I asked was what the hell was going on!” 

“As if we didn’t have you on our territory already,” Laura snaps, “now we have another intruder! Someone else came with you, didn’t they?” 

“Hey!” Stiles is starting to get really pissed off here. “Quit it with the attitude, okay? I have no idea who else could be here, I’m here by myself. Listen to my heartbeat and tell me if I’m lying.” 

Laura’s glare is nowhere near as intimidating as Mrs. Hale’s, but Stiles gives her points for trying. Still, she fastens her gaze on his heart as if she wants to set him on fire; Stiles tilts his chin up, doesn’t move. 

The moment stretches out long and tense, Stiles gritting his teeth with the longer that Laura listens to his heartbeat. He knows, he knows she’s doing this on purpose, trying to catch him out on a lie, but there’s no lie, only the weight of his life, the people he’s left behind. All for the chance to save Laura’s ungrateful ass. 

Finally, Laura snorts, her lip curling. She turns from Stiles and goes back to pacing, her arms wrapping around her as she sends short, agitated glances at the woods. Stiles, released from Laura’s glare, doesn’t feel as vindicated as he thinks he should. Rather, he feels tired, and clearly nothing good is going to get done while Mrs. Hale and the rest are chasing this intruder down, so he might as well sit down. 

He wanders over to the porch of the Hale House, debates going in. Deaton, who’s inside examining the wood next to the door, looks up at him. “Coming in?” he offers neutrally. 

Stiles opens his mouth, but the “Yeah, sure” on his lips dies before it’s born. He feels… weird about going into the house. Like it’s… not his place or something. Not that he wasn’t invited in or anything, Mrs. Hale had said they would be talking inside the house, but. Well. His instincts are telling him not to go in the house, no, really, like they’re saying, _Don’t do it, don’t open that door, the killer is on the other side, you freaking idiot!_

The thing is, this isn’t his pack. It’s not the Hale House he knows. He has no idea where he fits in here, or, hell, what’s going to happen next. No one in the Hale pack seems to like him much, and even if Deaton covered for him, he’s not sure waltzing into their house like that would win him any points.

“Uh, you know what, I think I’ll stay out here,” he says. As soon as he does, a huge weight seems to fall off his shoulders. He no longer feels like he’s in a horror movie waiting for the killer to cut through the door and go “Here’s Johnny!” at him, or to come after him with a hockey mask. Deaton is looking at him, but Stiles has no answer for his questioning look, for why he feels down to his _bones_ , what the fuck, that this is the Right Decision. 

“Interesting,” Deaton says. “It appears that even as a human, you still have an instinctual respect for the heart of the territory.” 

“Instinctual respect for the – hey, you believe me about being human!” Finally, some freaking validation! 

“I don’t know what you are,” Deaton responds, winning a groan from Stiles. “But it apparently means you won’t be coming in until Talia gets back.” 

“Great. That’s just wonderful.” Stiles slumps down on the steps. Now that he has nothing else to focus on but waiting, he notices the chill in the air and rubs his arms. How long is it going to take for Mrs. Hale to come back? Hopefully she does before he freezes to death. Nothing like driving home the “squishy human” point home like a Stiles icicle, à la Captain America. 

He amuses himself with that image, skinny, scrawny Stiles all beefed up and dressed very patriotically in red-white-and-blue, the shield brandished like a threat against Nazis and HYDRA. Or Jackson. Or Peter. Definitely Gerard, and definitely Deucalion. Asshole. 

He’s not wearing tights, though, that’s where he draws the line. All those USO girls, though…. 

On second thought, maybe not. Knowing his luck, it’d take seventy years before they thawed him again, and he’s just not that into drawing the parallels between him and Steve Rogers. 

He’s just jumped up, restless, and started wandering around, wondering how badly Mrs. Hale would take it if he came and checked out how they were doing – he’s never been great at sitting still and waiting, even worse when others are putting themselves in danger, understatement of the year – when something roars out of the woods like a demon. 

Stiles goes “agh!” when his back hits the side of the house, an iron bar across his throat again. He looks up, his eyes watering, into Kurt’s face, his mouth full of fangs and eyes flashing neon blue. 

“You!” Kurt snarls, his iron-grey hair in his face, spittle flying. “You brought them here!” 

“What?” Stiles manages to choke out. “What the hell – are you talking – about?” 

“You brought the _hunter_ with you.” Kurt’s voice is a mere rumble, but one that rattles through Stiles’s bones. 

“What?” Stiles kicks as Kurt slides him farther up the wall. “What the – ?” 

“Kurt!” Caleb shows up from out of nowhere, too, and hangs onto the arm holding Stiles up. “Kurt, come on, man, you gotta drop him, you’re not doing anybody any good right now. Kurt. _Kurt!_ ” 

“How else would you know that a hunter was here?” Kurt sneers, ignoring Caleb. His fangs are very sharp-looking. “You were being chased by one! And now you’ve brought them directly to our doorstep!” 

“What, no I didn’t! Let – let go. I can’t – I can’t breathe!” 

“KURT.” 

Kurt lets go. Stiles falls with a “oof!” as he renews his acquaintance with the sweet, sweet solidity of the ground. His throat feels like it’s on fire again, thanks Kurt, and seriously, he hasn’t had this many bruises since the time Gerard decided to prove just how “decrepit” he was. 

A pair of pumps comes into his view, plain and sensible. That feeling of _oh, shit I’m gonna die_ descends on him heavily, pressing into him like it wants his head to hit the ground. Stiles bristles, fights against it. Manages to pick his head up far enough to see Mrs. Hale’s dress, the cross of her arms, the blazing red of her eyes. 

Oh, _shit_.

“I am going to ask you this exactly once.” Mrs. Hale’s voice is low, rumbling, and way scarier than Kurt’s. “Why did I find the scents of gun oil and wolfsbane in _my_ territory, and why,” her eyes blaze brighter, “did you bring the hunter chasing you here to threaten _my pack_?” 

Stiles squeaks. He’ll deny it later, insist it was a very manly grunt, but in the moment, here, he squeaks. “What – what, uh, are you talking about?” 

If anything, Mrs. Hale seems to get angrier. “You can drop the act. We know the hunter is after _you_. If you want to live, you will tell me everything.” 

“Whuh, but she’s not chasing me!” Stiles flails. “She isn’t, she’s after – ”

This time, he doesn’t quite freak out when his throat closes up. He’s beginning to get an idea of why that’s happening, and of course, _of course_ the ritual would have something like this built into it. Why hadn’t Lydia told him? She’d done all the translating from the Archaic Latin, she could have at least, oh, he doesn't know, given him a hint or something. It’d be just like her to consider it a good idea, though, even though it makes his job a thousand times more difficult – 

“Pay attention!” Kurt’s fist crashes by Stiles’s head. Stiles jumps, crashes into someone’s legs. Laura’s face looms above him, and ohh, crap, she is angry. Very angry. 

“I’m not going to repeat myself,” Mrs. Hale says. 

Stiles looks around to see that Kurt has taken advantage of his distraction to get closer. He’s sandwiched between Kurt, the wall, and Laura now, with Caleb still hanging onto Kurt’s arm. Mrs. Hale stands in front of the only way out, close enough to grab him should he try to flee her way, aaaand he’s screwed. He’s so totally screwed. 

Now would be a totally awesome time for a surprise superpower to kick in. Annnytime now…. 

Nothing happens. Shit. 

“I can’t tell you.” Slowly, so slowly, Stiles holds his hands up. “You know I can’t tell you. Or the – the choking thing happens to me. Besides, what makes you think she’s after me, anyway?” 

“She was following _your trail_ , the one you made through the woods to get here,” Kurt growls, practically on top of Stiles now. “Said she heard about someone in the hospital with red eyes.” 

“What?” Stiles leans away, as far as Kurt will let him. As it turns out, that’s not very far. “I was nowhere near the hospital.” 

“You smelled like the hospital when we picked you up,” Mrs. Hale cuts in. “How do you explain that?” 

“And you definitely had red eyes then,” Caleb adds. 

“What? No, seriously, that’s impossible, I only woke up this morning. In _your_ basement,” he adds pointedly. 

Mrs. Hale’s eyes narrow. “What’s the last thing you remember?” 

“Not being in a hospital,” Stiles shoots back. “And definitely not with red eyes, or being in the woods, making a trail or whatever.” 

“Are you sure?” 

The whole group, Stiles included, turns. Deaton is not very far away from them, his eyes trained, intent, on Stiles. “You don’t remember any of that?” 

“ _No_ ,” Stiles retorts. “And seriously, guys, this isn’t funny. Is this a prank? Pretending I was wandering around in the woods, red-eyed, all hair, fangs and claws, like you guys? Puh-lease.” 

Deaton looks at Mrs. Hale, who looks back. They have some sort of wordless communication between them, Mrs. Hale’s eyes losing their red luster. The weight lifts from Stiles’s shoulders, no longer trying to pin him to the ground, but not dissipating the feeling of _oh, shit, I’m dead, I just don’t know it yet_. The both of them turn to Stiles as one, odd twins with the same gaze spearing through him. 

“What?” Stiles asks, wary. “What are you looking at me like that for?” 

“This is going to be difficult to believe,” Deaton says, after another look exchanged with Mrs. Hale. “But if you don’t remember anything….” 

“For the last time,” Stiles starts, annoyance sparking through him. 

“Two nights ago,” Mrs. Hale interrupts, “Kurt, and Caleb, and I felt a disturbance in the territory. We came across this Alpha, weak, no pack, but strong enough to hold off Kurt and Caleb until I arrived. 

“You smelled distinctly like hospital, disinfectant, anesthesia, and hospital bed. Your eyes were red. Your hands were curled into the shape of claws, but didn’t have any claws on them that I could see. I thought that was strange, especially when I was fighting you. Wouldn’t you shift, facing an Alpha stronger than you? But you didn’t, and now, apparently, you don’t even remember it at all.” 

“And when I came in the next morning to check on you,” Deaton adds, “you woke up, told me to warn Talia that Kate Argent was here, and then went back to sleep. You had red eyes then, too.” 

Stiles stares. Nothing Mrs. Hale and Deaton are saying should make sense. None of it. But. They’re not lying. He doesn’t see any of the tells that people give when they lie. He suspects that if he were to listen to their heartbeats, they’d be perfectly steady. Plus, the story is a little too well-meshed to be something they’d made up on the fly. When he looks at Caleb and Kurt, the both of them nod, Kurt with a rumble, Caleb with an apologetic look. 

It can’t be real. But something in him, something in his insides, says it is. 

“Okay,” Stiles says slowly, “even if I was wandering around in the forest, with red eyes,” his doubt comes through, clear enough for Stiles to hear it. Kurt growls again. “There’s no way I could have held off two betas by myself. Did I have a bat on me, a baseball bat? Because that’s served me pretty well running with you wolves, saved my life a couple of times.” Aside from the time he broke it across Ennis’s head and it did nothing but make Ennis go after him, but that’s a minor detail, who cares about those, right? 

Mrs. Hale’s expression is not amused. “No, you did not have a baseball bat with you.” 

“See? There you go, then.” A wave of relief washes over him. “Now I know you’re yanking my chain.” He laughs awkwardly. “Haha, very funny, you can stop pranking me now. Pick on the human who can’t hear your heartbeat, great job, guys.” 

He looks around, but no one else is laughing. Only grim faces look back. Deaton’s frowning too, his Zen Master Look cracking. Shit. 

“Guys, come on,” he tries. “There’s no way. I can’t have done that, I’m not even a wolf, I can’t do that stuff. The red eyes and – everything.”

“Yet here we are, with a hunter tracking _you_.” Mrs. Hale’s eyes drill into him. 

Stiles opens his mouth, closes it again. 

After a moment in which Stiles tries desperately to think of something to say, Mrs. Hale nods. “Tell me why Kate Argent’s in my woods, looking for you.” 

“She’s not,” Stiles says weakly. Actually, wait. Maybe it’d be a good thing for them to think that. An idea starts forming in his mind; then Kurt growls in his face, and it’s gone. 

“Down, boy,” he says automatically. He winces at Mrs. Hale’s glare. “Ah, I mean, could you please not do that? Personal space, it’s a thing.” 

“Kurt.” 

Kurt doesn’t stop snarling, but he does take a step back, as much of a step as somebody in a wolf-crouch can take. 

“Why is – ”

“Okay, okay!” Stiles holds his hands up; shit, when had he put them down? “She – I don’t have any pack members. Anymore.” Technically, he does, but without – without S— 

He grabs at his chest, fights against the tears, the fucking tears that never stay down, goddammit. Funny, but it’s just now hitting him, the enormity of the empty space inside him where they should be: his dad, Scott, Mrs. McCall, Lydia. Allison. Derek. Cora. Isaac. Erica. Boyd. 

They’re not – he’s never going to see them again, even the ones who’re alive, and oh God. Fuck. Fuck, this was a terrible idea, he never should have done this. He should have stayed there and died with them instead of taking the coward’s way out. He should have been there for Lydia, for Mrs. McCall, fuck, he’s so fucking selfish, he’s the worst person ever. 

Hands on his face make him look forward. Mrs. Hale’s gaze is not sympathetic, but it is direct. “Breathe,” she says. “I said, breathe. Deep.” 

Stiles breathes. 

“Again.” 

Again. 

“Keep breathing.” 

He keeps breathing, deep, straining against the way his lungs come up to a barrier and go no farther. The haze he didn’t realize is over Mrs. Hale’s face begins to clear, and when he’s focused on her, she inclines her head. 

“Good. Two more questions, then we’re done. First question, how did she kill them?” 

“With fire,” he says, thinking of Derek, his misery hanging around him like a shroud. “And wolfsbane.” Derek, half-dead in Stiles’s Jeep, bleeding all over his upholstery. “And another Alpha.” Scott, his eyes lifeless, staring. 

“Another Alpha?” Mrs. Hale wrinkles her brow. “Why would she work with another Alpha?” 

Stiles stirs. His brain starts working again, which, thank God. “Well, she didn’t, but the Alpha came to us because of her.” It’s not even a lie. Because of Kate’s death, Gerard had come for revenge. The Alpha Pack came because of Gerard. 

Thinking of the Alpha pack makes him think of Scott again, not just his eyes, but also the way his body was twisted around, blood seeping from the claw marks over his heart. Stiles knew before he got over there, had known through the fruitless rounds of CPR, known when Mrs. McCall threw him off and tried her own resuscitative measures. He’d known, but he’d had to try anyway. 

He’d tried. And failed. Just like he’d failed everyone else. 

He can’t speak anymore after that, not because of the choking thing, but because he literally can’t speak from the memories crashing down on him. Erica in Derek’s arms. Boyd, impaled on Derek’s claws. Isaac, his expression defiant in fluorescent green light. Derek, run through by Kali’s lead pipe. Cora in the ambulance. So many people caught up in this stupid thing, and all because Gerard couldn’t trust worth a damn, and Kate had a liking for statutory rape and fire. 

Fuck Kate. Fuck Gerard. Fuck all the Argents. They are, as a whole, a horrible breed, although Allison seemed to have come back from the Dark Side. He still blames her, deep down, although he has firsthand experience of how well Gerard could manipulate people. Still, but fuck the whole world would have been a better place if Gerard Argent hadn’t been born into it. 

Fuck. Stiles’s breath whooshes out in front of him. Think of something else. Anything else. When going through hell, keep going. 

Mrs. Hale must some sort of sense for when Stiles’s focus comes back, for that’s when she asks, “What can you tell me about Kate?” 

“Uhhh.” What to say? So many ways to throw shade, so little time. Too bad this crew wouldn’t understand half of it. “Psychotic. Blonde, tall, likes to laugh. Favors the shotgun with Nordic Blue Monkshood bullets or fire, loves to fuck with people. Oh, and she kills packs for no reason other than it’s fun.” 

All right, so that last bit is sort of a misleader, but from what Scott had told him about Crazy Aunt Kate, Stiles would bet his college savings it’s true. 

Mrs. Hale searches his eyes for a long moment; Stiles has no idea what she’s looking for. Then she sighs, lets go of his face, and stands. “Hmm. Well, thank you, we’ll keep that in mind,” she says. 

Kurt stands, finally giving Stiles his personal space. Stiles lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding. Laura and Caleb back off, too, which, awesome, more breathing room. Phew. 

“I am sorry for your loss,” Mrs. Hale continues. “However, because you didn’t tell us that Kate was pursuing you, specifically, I’m afraid we cannot offer you asylum.” 

“Asylum?” Stiles looks up from where he’s tugging his shirts back into order. 

Mrs. Hale’s eyebrows do their steepest climb to her hairline yet. “You weren’t going to ask for asylum?” 

“Why would I ask for asylum?” Stiles asks. “I’m not a refugee from a foreign country.” Except, he really kind of is. That’s… a cheerful thought. 

If he didn’t know any better, he’d say that the look Mrs. Hale wanting very badly to rub her face with exhaustion. “When someone asks for asylum, he is applying to a pack for a place to rest and be protected from outside threats while he or she heals. Normally, proper introductions are made then, rather than coming onto the pack’s territory flashing red eyes –”

“I didn’t,” Stiles protests, automatic. 

“But that might have been laid aside in this case, given extenuating circumstances,” Mrs. Hale continues. “But, as I said, because you didn’t tell us Kate was after you, specifically…” 

“You can’t offer me that.” Stiles’s heart sinks. To be honest, he never really thought about asking for asylum from the Hales (mostly because it’s not him Crazy Aunt Kate is trying to kill, come on), didn’t even know about it before Mrs. Hale explained it to him. However, she has pointed out something that nobody, not him, not Lydia, not Older Deaton, nobody remembered to calculate – where is Stiles going to live? All the plan accounts for is warning the Hales and then helping to take down Kate. There isn’t anything else, and wow, this is the biggest case of “they really should have thought this through” ever. 

Deaton steps forward. “I’ll take him in,” he offers. “It shouldn’t be for long, just until Kate is dealt with. Once that happens, Stiles should be free to go his own way. Shouldn’t you, Stiles?” 

“Uh, yeah,” Stiles says, totally lost. “I should.” 

“In the meantime, that lets me keep an eye on him.” Deaton ignores Stiles’s squawk. “Does that work for you, Talia?”

Mrs. Hale takes a moment, her dark eyes flitting between Deaton and Stiles. Then she nods, her arms falling away from their cross over her chest. “That sounds good, Alan. As always, you have a talent for solving problems almost before they come up.” 

Deaton smiles. “You’re too kind. I’ll see you next week?” 

“Barring other unforeseen circumstances.” The corners of Mrs. Hale’s mouth tuck in on themselves; after a moment, Stiles realizes that’s a smile. 

“Wait, what – Mrs. Hale can – and you – with Deaton?” Stiles splutters. Holy God, too many shocks today. He has received way too much information to be able to process it all right now. His brain is, like, seizing, he can’t handle it. 

“Come on,” Deaton says. “I think it would be best if we removed ourselves soon.” 

“Whuh?” Stiles looks over at Mrs. Hale, who’s standing with Kurt at her shoulder. Behind her, Caleb and Laura stand, their eyes riveted on Stiles, expressions unfriendly. At their back, the Hale House is partially blocked from view, like they’re a wall –

Oh. They don’t want him here. They’re presenting a united front against him so that he knows he’s not welcome. That hits him hard, although he doesn’t know why, he’s not one of their pack. He isn’t, but. 

But nothing so far has been as it should be.

****

**End Chapter Three**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In posting this, I’m realizing that the pace might seem a little slow, but don’t worry, it’ll pick up. It’ll really pick up, whoo boy. So keep hanging on to your overalls and bear through to the end, hey? Thanks for continuing to read!


	4. Fourth Step, or, Full Speed Ahead, Sulu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hunt begins. Stiles finds more in store than just Kate Argent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh. My. God. I am so sorry about how long this chapter took to come up. Pretty much as soon as I got last chapter up, my cell biology class started and I got sucked into that, with the end result being that my motivation for this story went POOF. This chapter also needed about three-quarters of it to be rewritten, and refused to cooperate. It was like pulling teeth to get down what I wanted on paper (er, screen); I’m surprised I have any left at this point. Jeesh. At any rate, I finally got this done, and have uploaded it for your enjoyment. Thanks for sticking with me, and I’ll try to have the next chapter up within the next four weeks, depending on how much work that one gives me. Rewriting is hard work!
> 
> Also, mind the updated tags. T__T The Sheriff's name is John. The Sheriff's name will always be John. I don't know who this Noah dude is. Like, who? *smh*

_**T-23 Days**_

_Scott’s expression, as he looks at Stiles, is kicked puppy sad. “Are you sure about this, bro? I can talk to Allison another time.”_

_“I’m sure, bro.” Stiles rubs at his eyes. They burn like hell, but any time he closes his eyes, his dad’s horrified expression leaps out at him. “Tell her hi from me, huh?”_

_“Stiles…”_

_No. Don’t look like that, Scott. “She’s leaving for France tomorrow, right? Just go!”_

_“Stiles—” Scott’s hand lands on his shoulder, right where the bruise on his collarbone sits._

_“Gahh!”_

_“Sorry, man!” Scott snatches his hand back, as Stiles winces and gasps over the pain. “But dude—”_

_He looks up to see Scott’s puppy eyes are back and ramped up to their fullest. “I just,” Scott shuffles his feet, “I wanted to say sorry, and thanks. I know I’ve been a shitty best friend and I haven’t been there for you when you really needed me—”_

_“No, really, Scott?” As soon as he says them, Stiles wants to take the words back. He doesn’t want to have this now, not with where they are._

_“—you’ve always been there for me. Remember when Deucalion made that offer to help find your dad?”_

_Stiles hangs his head, tries to hide the tears welling up again. Yeah, yeah, he’d tried to be there, only for Scott to abandon him without much more than a look back. “Way to go, bro, bring that up and cause me more pain, why don’t you.”_

_“I know, and I really am sorry, dude,” Scott says. “But you’re my brother. I’ve been horrible at showing you that. From now on, I’m going to try harder. No more brushing you off, no more making you feel like you don’t matter. I’m sticking with you, all the way to the end.”_

_Stiles means to say, “Thanks, bro,” but what comes out is, “What about when Allison decides to get back together with you?”_

_Scott’s face falls. Stiles, or the cynical part of him, thinks:_ That’s what I thought. _But then Scott’s expression firms, becomes determined._

_“Then she’ll just have to deal with it.”_

_“Scott?”_

_Scott puts his arm around Stiles’s shoulder, making sure to the avoid the bruised collarbone. “Allison will have to deal with it. You’re my family, bro. There’s nothing that can replace that.”_

_Shit, now his eyes really are burning. Stiles scrubs at them even as he turns to envelop Scott in a Stilinski hug, which Scott returns, his arms tight around Stiles’s ribs._

Bzzzt…. Bzzzt…. __

_They break apart, Scott going for his phone. “It’s Allison,” he says unnecessarily. “She’s wondering where I am.”_

_“Go on.” Stiles waves his hand. “Go meet up with her. I’ll be fine.”_

_Scott studies Stiles’s face. “You know what? I’m going to call her and tell her I can’t make it.”_

_“What?”_

_“Dude, your_ dad’s funeral _was today.” Scott’s already scrolling down his recent calls list. “If ever there was a time you needed me, it’s now.”_

_Stiles watches, stunned, as Scott puts the phone to his ear. “I’m going to go over there, okay?” Scott points to another row of headstones, probably far enough away that Stiles won’t be able to hear him. Stiles nods, watches as Scott wanders away, Allison’s voice already tinning out of the receiver._

:~:~:~:

“Scott. No. No, Scott, don’t!”

Stiles startles up into consciousness, the echo of Scott’s voice still ringing in his ears. Shit! Scott, where’s Scott? 

He scrambles out of bed, trips over the bedsheet that manages to cling to him. By some miracle he makes it to the door, wrenches it open, only to nearly collide with someone else on the other side. 

“Whoa!” he yelps, windmilling backwards. He’s falling, he’s falling, he’s – 

\- saved by an iron grip on his forearm. For a moment, Stiles’s heart skips. Scott! Scott’s here, he’s safe, it was a dream, thank God, it was just a dream. 

Then he looks up, and reality crashes into him with the force of an angry Alpha broken loose on the full moon. 

Deaton looks back at him, nonplussed. In the arm not raised for knocking, he’s holding a pile of clothing. 

“Whuh?” 

Following Stiles’s gaze, Deaton shifts the pile forward. “I went up in the attic and found these for you,” he says. “They may not be an exact fit, but they’ll probably do until everything blows over.” 

“What? But, but —” He’s so confused. Where’s Scott? Why is Deaton even here in the first place? Whatever, that’s not important, he needs to find - 

Wait. Scott’s dead. Stiles is in the past, trying to change everything so nothing falls apart. Right. Oh, God. 

“I thought I’d offer you these,” Deaton continues, apparently oblivious to Stiles’s mental breakdown, “since when they found you, you had only the clothes on your back. Quite literally.” 

“Uh, yeah.” Stiles numbly accepts the neatly-folded pile. “That’s really – yeah – thanks.” Jeez, but being here gives him whiplash. One moment, he’s worrying that Scott’s going to die, the next he has to worry about not having fresh clothes. God. 

“Old clothes of mine,” Deaton says, finally employing his powers of telepathy. He quirks an eyebrow at Stiles’s look. “Not hard to guess what you’re thinking,” he teases gently. “You are very expressive.” 

“Yeah, yeah, face like an open book, whatever,” Stiles grouches. He picks up the shirt on the top and holds it out. Well, it doesn’t look like it’d be too huge on him, at least? Not any more than Stiles’s shirts are usually, and wow, this shirt must have shrunk in the wash or something, and that’s why Deaton doesn’t wear it anymore. “Well, uh, thanks, I guess?” 

Deaton nods his head in a sideways gesture. “I suggest you get dressed quickly, Talia is coming over in a bit to retrieve you.” 

“Retrieve me? What?” 

“She wants you to help them look for Kate Argent.” 

Stiles holds up his free hand, waves it quickly. “So, wait, first they won’t let me hang out with them, too cool kids for that, but they’ll make me help them the second there’s danger? Ugh.” Sounds… suspiciously familiar. Older Derek, anyone? Mrs. Hale must have been the one he learned it from. Jeez. 

“In their defense, you did lie about the severity of the threat.” 

Stiles bites back his first choice of words. Namely, those about a) not being able to for fear of dying from suffocation, and b) not actually being the one Kate’s hunting. But whatever, whatever gets them to keep their eyes open and stay alive. He doesn’t care. Much.

“What makes them think I’ll be any help? They’re all super-wolves, aren’t they? And no matter what they keep saying, I’m not.” Stiles turns to toss the clothing on the bed, watches as half the pile slides to the floor. Eh, he’s worn worse. “I’m not even a part of their pack. According to them, I’m a threat. Why would they want me around?” 

Shirt, sweatshirt, pants, socks. No underwear, but there’s no way he’d accept any of Deaton’s anyway. Awkward, and also, disgusting, much? He’ll have to wash his current pair in Deaton’s laundry when he gets a chance. Or go commando, which he’s not actually a fan of. Awesome. Really, just super awesome. 

What’s not awesome, when Stiles turns back to the door, is the way Deaton is considering him: thoughtfully, as if Stiles has given a piece of himself away. “I think,” Deaton says carefully, “that you will be needed in on this, if Kate Argent is going to be taken care of without any casualties.” 

Yup, Stiles has definitely given something away. Deaton’s watching him like he’s about to do something batshit stupid, which, yeah, not a totally wrong idea. 

Irritated, he snaps, “Whatever, dude,” turns away and closes the door so he can get dressed in peace. 

It’s as he’s putting on his pants (not too bad a fit, though he should probably wear a belt) that it hits him. 

Scott’s dead. Stiles will never joke with him again, never say “bro” and mean it. He won’t get to hear Scott rhapsodize about Allison in retribution for the times Stiles went on and on about Lydia. Never be able to help him figure out his new wolfy powers, never have someone, the only one, understand him like Scott did. 

Sure, Scott had been a shitty brother at the end, but what they’d had was one of a kind. Now he and Scott can’t make up and go back to what they were. 

God, this sucks balls. 

He doesn't know how long he's been sitting there when a sense of... something, a change in the air, a new heaviness to it, just something different – alerts him. Then it's like, once he's aware, it's blindingly obvious. Something's coming, something powerful. Something that raises the fine hairs on his arm and makes him think of razor-sharp fingernails, a yellow glare sharp enough to strip paint, and… metal? 

He gets dressed in a hurry then, is down the stairs and bounding towards the front door when Deaton pokes his head out. "Stiles? Remember Talia is coming over any minute now." 

“No, it’s Laura coming over.” Stiles stops dead. Laura? He sees again the flash of yellow eyes and tang of metal. Oh, the face piercings! As soon as realization registers, his whole body goes down from DEFCON 2. His breath slows, his heart stops its frantic drumbeat in his throat, and he sags, all at once. Of course Laura is the something powerful coming this way. She’s next in line to the Alpha-dom, right? It makes sense that if Mrs. Hale makes Stiles feel like he’s drowning, Laura should make frissons go up his spine. 

"Are you all right?" 

Deaton's emerged from whichever room he was in. He's studying Stiles with that look again, the _he's-going-batshit-quick-contain-him_ one. Annoyed, Stiles shrugs him off, heads towards the kitchen. 

"I'm starving," he announces. "What've you got in here for a growing boy, Doc?" 

He won't get an answer today, for right then, Deaton's phone rings. Deaton takes one look at it, an ancient Blackberry with stylus attached and physical keyboard, gawd, and starts walking to the door. 

Stiles beats him there, pulling open the door as his hackles rise again. It's on the tip of his tongue to yell at Laura to get off his lawn like an old geezer, but the sight strangles his tongue and leaves him mute. 

A Hummer. They’re here, in a Hummer. There's Laura staring belligerently at him from the front passenger seat, that's Caleb flipping shut his phone, and that's – that's – 

"What's the hold up, Vrilinski!" Laura shouts. Stiles tears his eyes away from the figure in the middle row, glares. Laura glares back, all but flashing her eyes gold. 

“Laura, your mom told you to behave,” Caleb cuts in. “If you can’t do that – ”

"He's the one staring at us like a stupid fish," Laura grumbles, crossing her arms. She turns, though, and settles into her seat, her face piercings heightening the deepness of her scowl. 

Meanwhile, Stiles has crossed Deaton’s lawn and stands at the edge of it, shifting back and forth. He feels like he's at a line of some kind, like if and when he takes a step farther, he's not going to be on safe territory anymore. It reminds him, super randomly, of Capture the Flag, where he's crossing into enemy land to capture the flag, only three members of the opposite team are already there and just waiting for him to make a move. 

Fuck it. They came here for him, so or Deaton said. They're going to get him. 

He steps out from the fence onto the sidewalk. Immediately Laura's eyes are on him again; Stiles meets her glare for glare as he steps up to the Hummer, reaches for the door. 

The door swings open before he gets there. Stiles finds himself frozen again, face-to-face with the person who’d stopped him in his tracks before. Derek – it is Derek, there's no mistaking those eyebrows or the pale heterochromia of his eyes – quirks one of said eyebrows at him, slides backs to let him in. Stiles remembers what he's supposed to be doing, follows after a second. All without looking away. 

Derek... is shorter than Stiles remembers. Here doesn't have the heavy stubble, either, and is not a punishingly hot. He's softer, unfinished looking even, no cheekbones to cut glass on, no broad shoulders to carry the weight of the world's sins. He looks like a baby version of himself, which, oh God, he is. 

This Derek hasn’t met Kate yet. He hasn’t – Kate hasn’t had the chance to work her awful, pedophilic wiles on him, hasn’t used him to figure out the weakness of the Hale House and set it on fire with the Hales inside. 

This Derek could grow up to be free from the guilt that hung over Older Derek like a cloud. 

_SNAP_. “Hey, creep, don’t stare at my brother like that.” 

Stiles jerks, resists the urge to bite Laura’s fingers. “What the hell was that for?”

“What, can’t you hear?” Laura snaps her fingers in his face again. “You. Were. Staring.” 

“Laura…” Caleb says, tiredly. 

“I can take care of myself, Laura,” Derek butts in. “I can tell him to stop staring by myself just fine, thanks.” 

Stiles startles. Despite Derek sitting right there in front of him, the sound of his voice- the same light voice Stiles remembers with a crack in the middle – is a shock. “Sorry, dude,” he says awkwardly, his face on fire. 

Derek shrugs, turns to look out the window again. Stiles notices he has something in his hands he keeps flipping over and over. Before he can ask what it is, Caleb cuts in. “You had breakfast yet, Stiles?” 

“Wha? Uh…” Stiles’s stomach growls. Loudly. 

“Guess that’s my answer,” Caleb chuckles, as Stiles closes his eyes. God, today is not his day, and it’s only just started. “We’ll stop by In-N-Out on our way to the woods.” 

“Speaking of which, anything new on Kate?” Stiles shifts forward as much as the seatbelt will allow, sticks his head in between Laura and Caleb, much to Laura’s disgust. He ignores her. 

“No,” Caleb says, glancing over his shoulder at Stiles. “But Talia wanted to start early, see if we couldn’t get something while the scent’s still relatively fresh.” 

“Have you tried looking in town? Anybody new is bound to stir up interest, even in Beacon Hills.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Laura demands. 

“Peter’s looking into that,” Caleb says as if Laura hasn’t said anything. “He’s really good at using computers, so even if Argent’s used a fake name or a flunky of hers has registered, he’ll be able to dig it up, given time.” 

“…Right.” He’d actually forgotten about Peter. How could he have forgotten about Peter? Fuck, now he has to keep an eye on him and Kate.

_Fuck._

“What, what is it? Stiles, do you see her, is she here? Stiles!” 

“What?” Stiles jerks up to see that Caleb, Laura, and Derek are all staring at him. Laura has her claws out. “What’s happening?” 

“That’s what we want to know!” Caleb exclaims. “Your heartbeat went through the roof! Is Kate here?” 

“Uh, no. At least I don’t think so?” Stiles sits up to make sure, peering out of the windows of the Hummer every which way. They’re stopped at the stoplight on the intersections of Main and Picketer Streets, and Stiles automatically looks to the police station on the left. It’s just a glance, a quick shuffle of his eyes over the station doors, but it’s the glance that changes everything. 

Coming out of the station doors, lunchbox swinging from one hand, the other hand lifted to shade her eyes, is his mom. 

Stiles’s heart stops. Then starts beating again, at twice the speed. 

“Stiles?!” 

Stiles flaps his hand irritably, wanting Caleb to shut up. His mom is thin, thin as a pole, and he remembers that from when he was ten, how he was afraid she was going to disappear if she lost any more weight. Or that he was going to be able to see through her or something. He wonders if she’s throwing up food yet, or if she’s still at the stage when she’s able to eat but doesn’t have much of an appetite.

The car pulls into motion then. Stiles scrambles in his seat to keep watching his mom as long as possible. She’s walking away now, so he can only see her back, but her silhouette is so familiar heat prickles at his eyes. 

Damnit. Goddamnit. 

When the Hummer turns the corner and his mom’s out of sight, Stiles doesn’t turn around for a full minute. When he does, Derek and Laura are both watching him, while Caleb is glancing between the rearview mirror and the road. Derek looks away when Stiles meets his eyes, but Laura tilts her head and opens her mouth. A quiet chuff from Caleb stops her, she snapping her mouth shut at the look on his face. Stiles looks down at the floor of the van and keeps his eyes there, his heart squeezing in his chest. 

After that, the atmosphere in the Hummer is very quiet.

:~:~:~:

When they pull into the back entrance of Beacon Hills Preserve, Mrs. Hale and Kurt are already there, waiting for them. If possible, Mrs. Hale looks even more regal than yesterday, her dark eyes unreadable as she regards the four of them clambering out of the Hummer.

“You all stink of adrenaline and sadness,” Kurt informs them. “What happened, did Laura run into that kid on the way out here, what’s his name?” 

“No,” Laura snaps. “Stop bringing him up already, oh my God!”

“Nobody’s bringing anybody up, Laur,” Caleb soothes. “Just calm down before you freak out.” 

Stiles looks to Derek for an explanation, but Derek is looking into the woods. Following Derek’s gaze, Stiles inhales. 

This is the spot he’d dragged Scott to the night they looked for the half-body. His feet, totally without Stiles’s permission, carry him over to the edge, where the leaves from the woods blow onto the lot. God, what would have happened if he hadn’t convinced Scott it was a good idea? He’s asked himself this question before, spent plenty of sleepless nights devoted to it (and lots of other things, too, yay ADHD). He’s never asked himself while actually standing where the werewolfy stuff all started. 

“What’re you looking at?” 

Stiles looks up to see Derek hovering over his shoulder. “Oh, nothing,” he says quickly. When Derek raises his eyebrows at him, he adds, “Just, reminded me of a friend. That’s all.” 

“One of your packmates?” Derek asks. 

“What?” Stiles gets whiplash snapping to look at Derek so quickly. 

“You smell sad again,” Derek tells him bluntly. “And I overheard Mom talking to Kurt and Peter about you having no pack anymore, so…” 

Oh. That’s… that’s actually really thoughtful. Stiles opens his mouth to tell Derek that- 

“Kids, over here!” Kurt’s voice shouts. “Your mother’s caught a faint whiff of wolfsbane and gun metal!”

Well, okay then. “Hey, wait for me!”

:~:~:~:

Stiles fetches up against another tree. He’s already sore and sweaty, though it’s only been fifteen minutes. The Hales set a fast pace, and they’re going over parts of the woods Stiles doesn’t recognize. Figures that Stiles doesn’t know all of it, even though he’s practically grown up going into the woods. He’d feel bad about it, but it was like this back home too, pretty much, with Derek showing off how much better he knew the Preserve than they did at every opportunity.

At least _that_ hasn’t changed. 

“Wow, you’re slow,” Derek laughs as he circles back to Stiles. 

“Well, excuuuuuse me, princess,” Stiles pants. “I can’t do the super speed like you guys. Sorry for being just human.” 

Derek’s eyebrows scrunch together. “I thought – Mom said—”

Stiles groans. “They still think I’m an Alpha? Jeez.” He’d been hoping they had been kidding about that, even though it was clear then that they really, really weren’t. 

Derek stops where he is. “You don’t think you are?” 

Stiles sighs, throws his hands up in the air. “The thing is, I wasn’t bitten. I certainly wasn’t born one, either. How can I be a werewolf if neither of these things happened?” 

That clearly takes Derek aback. “But you smell—”

“Yeah, I have no idea what’s up with that.” Stiles shrugs. 

“Huh.” For some reason, Derek closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. “Nope, not smelling anything other than Alpha wolf.” 

“Wait, did you just sniff me?” 

“No.” Derek’s deadpan expression is so like Older Derek’s, Stiles almost chokes. “I would never do that. It would violate the bro code.” 

Stiles stares, open-mouthed. He has no other choice. Derek literally just said “bro”, unironically, without torture or other form of duress. His mind is, like, utterly blown. 

Then Derek snickers, and any resemblance, behaviorally, is gone. “The look on your face!” 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Whatever, dude. Hey, shouldn’t we be looking for the trail?” 

“Oh, yeah.” Derek darts a furtive look around. No one’s there, but he still pulls Stiles after him, back into the invisible path they were following. “We wouldn’t have been distracted if it weren’t for you, anyway.” 

“Hey, you’re the one who decided hanging out with me was a good idea,” Stiles points out. 

“Well…” Derek hesitates. 

“What?” Stiles squawks. 

“It was between me and Laura, since Caleb and Kurt are our best trackers,” Derek shrugs. “Since Laura seems to get even angrier when she’s around you, Mom elected me for the job.” 

“Great,” Stiles grumbles. “What is Laura’s deal, anyway? Is it just me, or does everything make her Hulk out?” 

“Hulk out?” Derek says blankly. “Are you talking about the movie they made in 2003?” 

“What, no, I’m talking about the one with Edward Nor—” Wait, wait, wait. Right, it’s 2004. Shit, he can’t remember when the movie with Edward Norton came out. “Uh, yeah, the one from 2003. Who played Bruce Banner in that one?”

“Eric Bana,” Derek says absently. _Eric Bana?!_ Stiles makes a face to himself. “You know, I never thought about it like that before, but I think you’re right. She is like the Hulk.” 

Stiles smirks. Derek’s lips twitch. After a moment, they both break down laughing. “It’s so appropriate, though!” Derek gets out. “Sometimes she gets so angry, she will actually—”

“I’ll actually what?” 

“Eee!” Stiles jumps a foot in the air. “Stop doing that!”

“Not my fault you weren’t paying attention,” Laura retorts. “What were you saying about me?” 

Shit. Shitshitshit. “Uhhh, we weren’t talking about you!” he stammers. “We were, uh—”

“We were talking about why Stiles doesn’t think he’s a werewolf,” Derek puts in. “Even though he smells like one.” 

“Yeah!” God, Stiles could kiss Derek. If he thought he could get away with it. And not get punched six ways to Sunday. “I was telling Derek there is no way I could be a wolf because I wasn’t born or bitten.” 

“Actually, Mom has a theory about that,” Laura says. “She thinks that maybe you were bitten, but it was such a traumatic event that your brain has blocked it out and repressed the shift. Losing your pack probably didn’t help, either.” 

“Uh.” Stiles’s brain goes blank at the horrifying prospect. “How about no.” 

Laura lifts an eyebrow. “You saying Mom’s wrong?” 

“Uh, yeah. Traumatic or not, I really would have remembered being bitten. It would have been important to my continued survival, and believe it or not, I happen to like being alive.” 

_At least until this thing is done,_ part of him says. Stiles does not repeat that out loud. Or thinks he doesn’t, anyway. 

“Maybe you were bitten when you were too young to remember,” Laura shrugs. “Mom says that shift repression can happen for a long time.” 

“To the point where nothing happens?” Stiles says skeptically. “Even repressed, there would have been something that showed up, if subconsciously. That’s how repression works.” 

“You mean like your eyes flashing?” Laura’s mouth turns up in a smug smile. “Which, oh yeah, they’re doing right now, by the way.” 

“What?” Stiles glances at Derek, who promptly looks away. “Derek?” 

Derek raises his head, but doesn’t meet Stiles’s gaze. “Yeah, they’re red.” 

Laura grins, teeth sharp. “Told you. Now come on, Mom thinks Caleb’s found something, and she wants us all to gather up.” 

Stiles grits his teeth. All he wants to do, right now, is rip Laura’s smirking head off her shoulders. He hates her smugness, the way she saunters off into the woods like she didn’t fucking listen to a word he said, which, oh yeah, she didn’t. maybe he could get Kate to shoot her, see how she’d like that while Stiles dug out the wolfsbane bullets. Maybe Laura would listen to him then.

A light touch brushes over his shoulder. “Stiles?” 

“What.” Stiles glances out the corner of his eye at Derek. Derek instantly flinches away, but he doesn’t remove his hand from Stiles’s shoulder. 

“We’d better follow her,” Derek says quietly. “So we don’t get left behind.” 

“Fine.” Stiles moves towards where Laura disappeared. Derek catches up to him, then edges ahead to lead when Stiles jerks his hand for him to show the way. 

They’ve gone a few steps when Stiles bursts out with, “If I’m really an Alpha, which I’m not saying I am, then why don’t I feel any different?” 

“You’re not supposed to,” Derek answers. 

Oh, gee, that’s just great. Thanks, Derek. Thanks a lot.

:~:~:~:

Caleb’s lead, and the hunt overall, are a bust. Stiles kind of thought it would be, since no one really knows what they’re looking for, including him, but it’s still frustrating. Neither the woods nor the search of the town revealed anything. Although, there was some excitement for a while at one of the motels in Beacon Hills Township (sending him into a horrible flashback to the suicide motel - if the Hales don’t think he’s a nutcase by now, he’ll eat his Jeep), but ultimately, no dice. Hopefully Peter will have something, and boy, there’s a sentence Stiles never thought he’d say again.

The clinic is busy when walks into it, so he just darts into the back to tell Deaton that he’s back and going to walk down the road a bit. Deaton looks up from the male cat whose underbelly he’s examining, says, “Be careful,” and goes back to what he’s doing. Stiles looks carefully away from where the scalpel is going and backs out the door of the surgery. 

The sidewalk of Picketer is reassuringly familiar. Stiles can pretend that he’s walking with Scott from the clinic to the police station to check on his dad before driving Scott and himself home. Even some of the faces are the same, if younger; he says hello to Mrs. Strutherton and Mrs. Willis, only realizing after he’s already passed them that that’s a mistake. Now the gossip mill is going to go into overdrive about him (luckily, he hadn’t greeted them by name. Maybe they’ll just say he’s really friendly and polite, and not oh my God, he’s such a stalker). He bets by early morning tomorrow the rumormongers in town will have found out he lives with Deaton and will show up with casseroles and thinly-veiled smiles and the most invasive questions, holy God – 

He looks up at the police station then, his heart stuttering in his throat. His dad's only been dead for a few weeks, but it feels like forever, according to the maw in his chest. From the first days after, through the funeral, to now, Stiles had been so busy - had kept himself busy - enough that he could get by without being wholly swallowed by the maw. Doing this, stepping into the police station, will undo all of that. He’ll be voluntarily stepping over the edge of the abyss, voluntarily letting himself misstep and give in to the sobbing mess of a breakdown waiting patiently on the periphery. But he has to, he has to see his dad as he was, not as he is, dead as a doorknob. 

The doors swing open, then closed behind him. There's the counter, and Deputy White behind it like every day before his death in 2007, two years from now. He forces himself not to think about that, just looks towards the rec room, where his dad, still a deputy, always was when not on the beat. Stiles drifts over as close as he can get, ignoring White's query of "Can I help you?", peering in without blocking or going through the door. 

And there he is. His dad is in a wrinkled uniform, clutching a cup of station coffee as he jokes with, oh jeez, _Tara_. Tara looks as beautiful and put-together as always; Stiles is reminded of the crush he used to have on her when he was little, before Lydia came into his life. Then his dad gestures, and Stiles’s attention is dragged back. It looks like his dad has just come off shift, probably waiting for his relief to come in before he heads home. Jeez, he looks so much younger, his wrinkles less entrenched, his smile coming easier, flashing brighter, chuckles coming out without that bone-tired edge Stiles remembers. 

Stiles likes to think he doesn’t get angry or resentful often. Normally he has too much to do and/or other things to focus on, and then whatever he's resenting will disappear under the thrill of new research, new information. Such is his way of coping with anything new. But this hot new flare of anger and the desire to wring someone’s neck (which isn't actually new), he doesn't think he can bury it underneath research. 

He turns on his heel and brushes by White, who has come out from behind the counter. The old man shouts after him, "Quit running in the station, boy! Show some decorum!" But Stiles isn’t paying any attention. 

The stairs disappear. The sidewalk rushes by underneath his feet like water. His breath pants roughly in his ears, though the sound of his heartbeat threatens to drown it out. He turns down one alley, and then another, before he starts punching the wall. 

“Gahh!” He bends over his hand, shaking it as the pain roars up his nerve endings. How pathetic is he, that he can’t take one measly punch to the wall? He wasn’t even hit this time, but he’s still carrying on like a pathetic, stupid baby. 

He puts his other fist into the wall. And _ow_ , that was a really bad idea, Jesus, and he's sobbing. The maw has roared up from the depths, catching him up in an overwhelming wave of emotion. He can only think, as his ragged sobs ring in the alley, that he hopes no one comes across him. He doesn't want anyone to see him like this, as he rocks back and forth and wraps his arms around himself in a stupid parody of a hug. He would kill for one of his dad's hugs right now, but he really doesn't want anyone to see or hear him either. 

So he chokes down the sobs, keeps his head down, and does his best to keep going, even in hell.

:~:~:~:

Long before he gets back to the clinic, Stiles senses the shift in the air. Black fur (wait, what?), gleaming red eyes, and a regal air that translates in wolf or human form – Mrs. Hale.

What’s Mrs. Hale doing at the clinic? She had driven Laura and Derek home in a flashy silver Saturn Vue (excuse him), while Caleb and a glaring Kurt took Stiles in the Hummer to the clinic to drop him off. 

He picks up his pace. Whatever Mrs. Hale is at the clinic for, it can’t be good.

The closer he gets, the more oppressively the sense of Mrs. Hale power settles on him. He keeps expecting Mrs. Hale to step out of the clinic and stare at him with his dark eyes – or attack him – or something. 

She doesn’t. 

He gets all the way to touching the wall of the clinic before anything happens. 

“I see what you’re saying, Talia, and I agree with you, his shift is being blocked.”

Wait, that’s Deaton talking. Stiles looks around, spots the ajar clinic back door. Huh. For a moment there, he’d thought he actually had werewolf hearing – Deaton’s voice is so loud and clear like Stiles is in the room with him. 

“But not in how the shift is being blocked?” Mrs. Hale’s voice is even, betraying nothing of what she’s feeling. “Alan, the boy wears pain like a cloud, it comes off of him nearly constantly. I don’t see what else could be the block but that.” 

Whoa, what? Werewolves can smell emotions? Oh, God, Older Derek must have smelled Stiles’s boner for him so many times – no wonder he’d always looked like he’d smelled something dirty! That’s so embarrassing, he can never look Derek in the eye again – 

“Maybe that is some of it, but there is more. Last night, I took the clothes he was wearing and did a reading of them.” Stiles barely stops the noise of indignation from coming out, but dude, those are _his clothes_. So not cool, man. 

“And? What did you find?” 

“To be honest, the reading was… confusing. I got a sense of power, like a wolf’s, as well as a sense of Stiles – always moving, always thinking—”

“Mm.” 

_Rude!_ Stiles wants to say at Mrs. Hale’s response. He bites the urge back. With a Herculean effort.

“—but that wasn’t all. I also felt a third presence.” 

“A third?” Mrs. Hale sounds surprised.

“It wasn’t anything I’d felt before. It was old and corrupted. It was twisted around Stiles and his power, even in between, like it was trying to keep them apart.” 

“That’s why you believe Stiles himself isn’t blocking his own shift?” 

“Yes. I’d love to be able to tell you what it is,” Stiles snorts to himself, as if Deaton ever tells anybody anything except in riddles, “but unfortunately, I’m not familiar with it. I can tell you it reminded me of vines, the way it twisted around, but that’s all.” 

“Vines?” Stiles says, almost before he remembers he shouldn’t. Then he claps a hand across his mouth, but it’s too late, he can already hear the footsteps. The back door opens, and Mrs. Hale fills it, looking down at Stiles with an eyebrow raised. 

“Uh, hi.” Stiles waves, awkwardly.

Mrs. Hale starts to respond, but then she gets a good look at him, and her whole face changes. “Are you all right? What happened, did somebody jump you?” 

Her hands on him are gentle as she plucks at his shirt, peers into his eyes. At first, Stiles has no idea why Mrs. Hale is doing this, except he gets a glimpse of his cracked, bleeding knuckles. Oh. Right. He ran into a wall. An extremely unforgiving wall. Repeatedly. 

“I’m fine.” He pulls away from Mrs. Hale’s touch, tries to shrug. Winces. “I just, uh, needed a moment. To myself.” 

Mrs. Hale’s concern changes to understanding. Stiles looks away, gestures behind her, where Deaton is hovering. “So, can I come in?” 

“I’ll get the first aid kit.” Deaton disappears. Stiles is shadowed to the exam table, where he drags his heavy as lead body up on to swing his legs. As soon as he gets situated, Mrs. Hale is there, leaning against the cabinets across from the table. 

It’s a long silent moment waiting for Deaton to get back. Mrs. Hale’s eyes are on Stiles like a hand across the back of his neck, firm and unyielding, but Stiles is so tired. Every part of him feels like it’s got an anvil attached to it, pressing him down like he’s one of those bendy trees he sees on the Internet all the time. He – has no energy left, is the thing. He feels like – like the time after Gerard beat him up: achy, humiliated, and defeated. Only he’s the one who beat himself up, this time, and not as a message for anybody else. 

Deaton returns with the first aid kit, starts patching up Stiles’s knuckles. Stiles winces through the alcohol, says nothing when the gauze is applied, wound around his hand. Deaton is quick and professional, rolling the gauze easily and taping it down with hardly any pain on Stiles’s part – way better than Stiles’s own attempts to self-bandage, and neater. Perks of being in a medical profession, he guesses, even if it’s not oriented towards humans. 

Mrs. Hale waits until Deaton’s started on Stiles’s other hand before she speaks. “I owe you an apology.” 

“Wha?” Stiles blinks. “What for?” 

“I’ve been focused on protecting my pack, from Kate Argent and whatever hunters she brought with her, and from you. I thought that by finding Argent, I could see you move on as well, and not have to worry about you.” 

“…Okay…? Not seeing what you need to apologize for here.” 

Mrs. Hale sighs, uncrosses her arms. “It’s obvious you’ve lost people. Multiple people. Maybe even your whole pack.” She pauses for Stiles’s shudder to recede. “However, I only thought of you as a threat. An intriguing threat, one who didn’t seem to be able to shift…” 

“You were thinking grief was blocking the shift.” Stiles smiles, bitterly. “That I was repressing it because what, I’d rather have Scott here than believe I’m an Alpha?” Actually, that – that sounds plausible. He would rather have Scott alive than be stuck here, told at every turn he’s an Alpha when he’s clearly not. It’s not just he doesn’t feel like one, it’s that there’s just not enough evidence that adds up, not least of which is that he wasn’t bitten…. 

“If Scott is who was your Alpha, then, yes.” Mrs. Hale nods. “But I forgot to look at the whole picture. You’ve just lost your whole pack, Stiles. You’re only seventeen, you shouldn’t have to deal with this. You don’t deserve to be treated as an enemy, you deserve to rest. I’m sorry that it’s taken me this long to see that.” 

Stiles stares, unable to look away from the determination in Mrs. Hale’s eyes. “Uh, that’s okay, I’d really rather you didn’t see that. Actually, that would be great, could we just ignore everything and pretend this didn’t happen?” 

“You are not alone, Stiles,” Mrs. Hale says. “We can help you. You don’t have to go through this by yourself.” 

Oh, it’s an intervention. Laughing mirthlessly, Stiles slumps over, puts his face into his free newly-bandaged hand. God, he’s so tired. The anvils are getting heavier. “No offense, Mrs. Hale, but there’s no way you can help me. Nobody can help me. So, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I’m just here to stop Kate, okay? I don’t need anything other than that. So if we’re done here, I’d like to go to sleep.” The sooner he sleeps, the sooner the next day comes, he doesn’t add. 

Mrs. Hale and Deaton share a long look. Any other time, Stiles would roll his eyes, but he really wants to get out of here, away from this conversation, and faceplant into his pillow. Today needs to end, like, yesterday. _Last millennium_ yesterday, it needs to be done, now.

“Just let me pack this away,” Deaton says, finally. “I’d also like to do one last check on my patients, and then we can go.” 

“Fine. Great. Whatever. I’m going this way so I don’t have to deal with Mrs. Stare of Doom over here looking at me all the time.” 

Mrs. Hale’s lips purse. Deaton, as much as he can, looks horrified, but Stiles officially gives no fucks. Zero. None. Zilch. Nada. Zed. His “give a fuck” is broken, and he doesn’t have enough fucks left to fix it. 

So he retreats. He beelines for the front room, ducks under the counter and plops into the first uncomfortable waiting area seat he sees. There’s a frisson as he goes under the counter, but again, his give a fuck is broken, and it’ll stay that way until all the shit blows over. 

After that, maybe he’ll see about getting fixed. Maybe.

:~:~:~:

Dinner is quiet, Deaton having tried and failed to get Stiles to “open up” about his feelings. Stiles doesn’t taste whatever’s on the plate, just takes three bites and plays with the rest. As soon as he thinks he can get away with it, he stretches and announces he’s going to bed.

Deaton doesn’t seem to be fooled, but he says, “Good night, sleep well,” so Stiles takes it as a win and escapes upstairs. 

_God,_ this day. If pictures could be taken of abstracts, today would be next to the dictionary definition of “shitty,” easily. It wasn’t going to be the last shitty day, either, he can see that written clearly on the wall, ugh. At least this one’s over, and he doesn’t have to deal with suspicious, bitchy werewolves, or worse, adults trying to help. Ugh. That was awful. 

He can’t help but wish his dad were here. Or Scott. They’d have some way of cheering him up, a different take on the situation that would make everything not seem so bleak. Heck, Scott would say that even if they didn’t find Crazy Aunt Kate, at least she hasn’t killed the Hales yet, so that’s something, right? 

Then Stiles would say something about _Yeah, but that doesn’t mean she won’t._ Stiles isn’t stupid, he knows he’s changed things. For one, the Hales have canceled the pack reunion that was going to happen two months from now, in January, which, as far as Stiles and Lydia could [tell] figure, was when Kate originally caused the fire. For another, the hunt they did today is another change. The Hales apparently had no idea that Kate was there last time. 

It should make him feel better about things, but it doesn’t. How does he know that by changing these things, Kate’s not also going to change? She could get to the Hales not by fire, but by some other method; she could use another member of the pack to get in, instead of Derek. Just by being here, Stiles has changed so much, including so many other things, little things, that he can’t even imagine. Like, his dad here could spill coffee down his uniform shirt because of something Stiles has done, could go home on a day he originally didn’t, and end up shot dead by a perpetrator on the way back. God! 

No, no, no, don’t think about things like that. But it’s already too late, Stiles feels like his skin is too tight, his heart is starting to pound, and the world is tunneling down to pinpoints. Staggering upright, Stiles makes himself move, get out of the room and into the next one, which is… the bathroom! Okay, okay, cold water, he can do that, cold water is going to suck, but sometimes it worked for him after his mom died. 

_Splash!_ “Gahh!” Stiles yelps. The water’s cold, but not cold enough: he can still feel the edges of panic creeping over him. The water has to keep running, get colder so it really shocks him. He tightens his hands on the sink, trying to hang on and breathe, as his heart thuds faster, harder, louder, feels like it’s going to knock right out of his chest, Jesus he’s going to die. This is it, this is where he kicks the bucket, in a fucking bathroom with fugly as hell green tiling, a vanity that looks straight out of an 80’s movie – 

“Shit!” Stiles scrambles away from the mirror, plasters himself against the shower door. Red eyes, he’d seen red eyes, an Alpha is in here! He looks around for something, anything to defend himself, comes up with nothing. He glances back at the mirror to gauge where the Alpha is – 

\- only to meet his own eyes. 

Eyes which are glowing bright red. 

“Shit!” As he says that, the red disappears. But he knows what he saw. Laura was right, Mrs. Hale was right, Stiles is an Alpha. What the fuck? How? How did it happen, he wasn’t bitten, he wasn’t – 

Fuck, they’re never going to let him live this down. He’s an Alpha. Somehow, the universe shitting on him, the hand of God slapping down on him, whatever, he’s an Alpha. He feels like breaking into hysterical laughter. God, isn’t that just his freaking luck? He gets his best friend bitten and ultimately killed, his dad is buried alive, he time travels to the past where nobody believes or trusts him, and he becomes an Alpha. He just can’t catch a freaking break. 

Okay, okay. Deep breaths. He’s an Alpha, fine. Does that mean that he _is_ going to have claws, the fangs, and all? Oh, God, please let him keep his eyebrows, he likes his eyebrows, he doesn’t want to look stupid when he shifts, like Older Derek does – 

_Click._

Stiles startles. What was that? It felt like something in his chest shifted, or something, and now it’s like a pulled muscle easing back into alignment. Thanks to lacrosse, he knows exactly what that’s like. Freaking Jackson. But no, seriously, what just happened? Is it something to do with his heart? Is he dying in other spectacular ways besides a panic attack? Is it the Alpha power?? 

He looks up into the mirror, but nope, boring old brown eyes. No red. Or blue or yellow. Looking at his hands, he twists them back and forth. No claws. No fangs, either, when he opens his mouth, and yup, his eyebrows are intact, with no fugly muttonchops for sideburns (guh). Nothing except plain old Stiles, beauty-marked face on a gawky head, giraffe neck, and scrawny shoulders, and all. 

Huh. “So, that happened,” he says to thin air. “Gotta say, that is… probably the freakiest thing to happen to me, and these days, that’s saying something.” He blinks. “What is my life.” 

It isn’t bad enough he has ADHD, which already marks him out to be different and a loser. Or that his best friend got turned into a werewolf. No, Stiles also has, let’s see, what has he done in the past year or so? He’s helped kill Peter Hale. Got his dad fired, _freaking Jackson_. Was paralyzed, also by Jackson, multiple times, as around him people were killed. A geriatric psychopath with fucking cancer beat the shit out of him. He yelled at Lydia, drove his Jeep into the side of a warehouse, and got his heart shattered into a million pieces. 

Then, he fought against the Alpha pack and fucking Ms. Blake, where his dad and Scott got killed. Then he came here with the express purpose of stopping all that. In the process, he somehow became an Alpha himself, despite not being bitten. 

Wow. When he puts it that way, he has no choice but to break into hysterical laughter after all. 

His life _sucks_.

:~:~:~:

Twenty minutes later, Stiles is on the bed in the guest bedroom, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling plaster. He wants so badly to sleep, but the bitch is as elusive as ever, no computer to wind himself down with kitten videos and Wikipedia binges, no pillow that’s his, the lighting’s wrong, his bed isn’t in the right corner, the sheets don’t feel right –

ADHD makes everything, including getting to sleep, _so_ much fun. 

Honestly, it was a miracle he got any sleep last night. Pretty much the only reason was because he crashed, hardcore, as soon as Deaton showed him where the guest bedroom was. Doesn’t seem like it’s going to happen tonight, even though it’d been just as long a day. 

Whee. 

He throws off the bedclothes and starts pacing. No laptop, no phone, not even a USB so he can work offline should his dad’s crappy wifi crap out. Deaton’s probably not in bed yet, so Stiles can’t go downstairs and turn on the TV on low volume, or better yet see where Deaton’s office is, do some snooping.

Too bad Deaton _is_ down there, and too perceptive by half for Stiles to sneak past him. Not to mention if he goes downstairs, Deaton will think it was weird he hadn’t gone to bed, and might try to get him to “talk” again. Ugh. No thanks. 

He has to get out of this room, though. There’s nothing here to distract himself with. May as well explore the rest of the upstairs, see what he can find. 

The second floor is essentially a corridor with stairs at one end and Deaton’s master bedroom at the other. The bathroom is across from Stiles’s room - er, the guest room – near which Stiles avoids going. That leaves one other door left on this level for him to investigate, and he wastes no time reaching for the doorknob. 

Initially, when the door swings open, Stiles has no idea what he’s looking at. There’s an old, sagging couch situated against the far wall with blankets and big vinyl record cases stacked on top. Next to it is a chest of drawers that doesn’t look like it’s gotten much love: Its varnish is peeling, and one drawer is cracked while another is missing its handles. 

Next to _that_ is a long, ugly 70’s-ish filing cabinet; Stiles’s fingers itch to open it. It must need a key or something, though, because the drawer doesn’t give when he tugs on it. Figures. 

All right, so this room’s a bust. He’ll just have to find something, _some_ way to – whoa. 

At his back, behind the door where he couldn’t see them at first, are two wide bookcases. Both are chockfull of books, with every shelf stuffed, and more books crammed into the spaces above each row. Jackpot. And dude, some of this stuff is relevant – wolf tales, cultures with wolves in them – they could be exactly what he needs. Why hadn’t Deaton told him about these? 

Loading the books in his arms, he looks over the other shelves. In short order, he’s added not only the wolf books, but also a bunch of others: stuff on plants, holistic treatments for some really bizarre-sounding diseases, and even a copy of _The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy_. He’s always wanted to read that, but never sat down long enough to actually do it. Nothing but time now, that’s for sure. 

It’s still doubtful Stiles will be able to sleep, with so many things in the guest room that are plain wrong. But hey, in the meantime, he’ll get to learn more about wolf symbolism – always good to have handy – and possibly be inspired with some ideas for how to slow down his mom’s frontotemporal dementia. 

It’s far-fetched, especially given her current state (the image flashes of her being so skinny, Jeezus, no, no, don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’tthinkaboutit). But he can’t do nothing. Maybe there is something in these books that nobody else would think about. It can’t hurt, right? At least this way, he can feel useful and not like he’s hanging on to his sanity by the last of his bitten fingernails. 

He settles into a cross-legged position, his pile of books laid open around him, and gets to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Eric Bana was Hulk in the 2003 edition. I’ve never seen it, but given the pictures that showed up on Google, and that I didn’t know about it until then, I’m guessing it was a bad version. Personally, I prefer the Edward Norton version, although I adore Mark Ruffalo as Bruce. There’s something about Norton that makes the quiet scientist vs. the green rage monster dichotomy so real, yanno? Poor Bruce. 
> 
> Bendy trees: [this](http://www.fotothing.com/photos/7d3/7d3f62b6d682522d74940659f5940c51.jpg) is something like what Stiles was thinking of. 
> 
> Additionally, Stiles’s description of himself in the bathroom scene is NOT how I think of him. I do not agree that he’s gawky and that his eyes are boring (they really, really aren’t). But nobody thinks of themselves as beautiful/handsome, especially not when they’re teenagers, _and_ Stiles has awful self-esteem, so I had to do it. I had to. Trust me, my soul is crying just as much as yours are.


	5. Fifth Step, Or, Something Wicked This Way Comes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The stakes are as high as they've ever been, but a new realization makes Stiles see how high they really are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, uni happened. *falls down face first* But at least you know this story is still alive! :Db I was going to go on hiatus after this chapter, in an effort to get the rest of the chapters rewritten without leaving you guys hanging, but now that I’m out of school for a couple of weeks, we’ll see how quickly the next chapter comes up. My pessimistic self says it won’t be quick, but I’ll give it a shot. 
> 
> That being said, this chapter really fought me and demotivated me often, so hopefully with this up, the later chapters will be more... malleable. >__> This chapter is also about 4K words longer than the previous chapters, because there’s a lot to cover in it, and there wasn’t a really good place to end it like with the other chapters. I’m sure it’ll be a hardship for you guys to deal with this. *wink*
> 
> As always, please heed the warnings, and allow yourself room to take care of yourself. No work of fiction is worth more than your mental health. Use that back button if anything in the warning list is triggering.
> 
> **Warnings: Angst; a certain adult flirting with underage people; discussion of sexual assault and Bad Touch Vibes; **mentioned (past) death of an unborn child**; rough handling of a minor by an adult (which I just now realized is a bad thing, darn you TW for normalizing this bullshit)**

Stiles’s hands are weird. 

Long-fingered, broad, and skinny, they look almost like spider’s legs, if spiders had five limbs instead of six. 

They also bear no resemblance to a werewolf’s. No matter how much staring he does at them, willing them to pop claws, turn hairy, something, they just. don’t. change. 

“Come on, shift already,” he mutters. “Why is this so hard? Scott never seemed to have so much trouble.”

Of course, Scott’s problems had more to do with controlling the shift from happening, not in inducing it. So maybe Stiles needs to think about this a different way. How had Scott put it, when Stiles asked how he wolfed out? “ _I don’t know, bro, I just… let it come._ ” 

Helpful. Real helpful. 

Okay. He can do this. Just has to relax, let "it" come, whatever "it" is. Which can happen aaaanytime now. No hurry, it's not as if this isn't important for his well-being or anything, nope, just take your time, no biggie, no... 

Nothing. 

"Oh, come on, there has to be another way!" He throws his hands up. 

"Whoa, watch it!" 

"Dude!" Stiles clutches at his heart, stares daggers through Derek. "I swear, you Hales and your sneaking up thing!" 

"How was I to know you would do that?" Derek’s caterpillar eyebrows set into an indignant angle. "Jeez, Stiles, I think you almost broke my nose!" 

"Please, your nose would have been fine," Stiles grouches. "I'd be more concerned about my hands." He checks said hands over. Nope, nothing new to them, not even the merest hair out of place. Dammit. There went his theory that he could be startled into shifting. 

Noticing what Stiles is doing, Derek asks, "Oh, you still trying to reach your form?" 

"Yeah," Stiles says glumly. "No dice, though. I got nothing." 

"Not even with my mom coaching you?" 

"Nope." Stiles pops the "p". "Like, I hear what she's saying, but it makes no sense to me, right? It's all mystical stuff like 'listen to your inner self' and 'let what you hear dictate your feelings.' Drives. Me. Crazy." 

Derek nods. "I've never had any problems trying to shift, but she's tried to give me advice on other things, too. Like with my girlfriend, Pai—"

He cuts himself off. Stiles stares, as Derek's face literally shuts off in a maneuver entirely too familiar. But now, knowing what lies behind the facade, Stiles gets so much more why he would do that, and hell, if he could do that, he would, too.

Uh, okay. He’s got this. Come on, think, what’s a good topic to change to? 

“So, uh,” Stiles coughs. “Where are we going today, dude?” 

“Huh? Oh, we’re supposed to go around town,” Derek says. He’s still closed off, but at least he’s talking, right? “Mostly sticking to Main Street, though, since pretty much anything that happens in town will cross there at some point.” 

“Good point,” Stiles nods. “So, she still hasn’t shown up yet, huh?” 

Derek shakes his head. “It’s driving Mom and Kurt crazy. They swear they can smell gun oil all over, like in the warehouses on the edge of town, but they just can’t find her. Caleb is starting to draw up theories that she’s fucking with us, leaving down these false trails and then laughing at us as we stumble around.” 

“Dunno, man, she seems to like to toy with the wolves to their face,” Stiles says. “Up close and personal, if you know what I mean.” 

Derek’s eyebrows draw together. “Uh, okay…? Whatever you say, man.” He gives Stiles a weird look. “Anyway, Peter says that he might have found something, but he has to check with the public records before he can confirm anything. Wouldn’t say what it was,” damn, that was Stiles’s next question, “at least not to me.” 

Stiles looks over at Derek. His forehead is scrunched over a pretty familiar frown. “You think they’re holding out on you? With information, I mean.” 

Derek rolls his eyes. “When don’t they hold out on me? I swear they all think I’m still five years old. Even Laura is in on it, which is so not fair. Like, come on, if you’re going to bring _Laura_ in, at least trust me, okay? I know I’ve messed up in the last year, but that’s no reason to shut me out of everything.” 

“Whoa, dude, what are you talking about?” Stiles almost stops in his tracks, except for where Derek takes him by the arm and makes him keep going. “Don’t yell at me, I have no idea what’s going on.” 

Derek blinks at him, even as his grip tightens a little. “Oh, right, you haven’t been around for – That’s so weird, it feels like you’ve been around forever.” He seems to notice his hand on Stiles’s arm, drops it like he’s been burnt. By a hot potato. At 451 degrees Fahrenheit. While also devouring a house. 

Okay, his brain can stop with the burning analogies anytime now. 

“It’s just,” Derek continues, while Stiles’s brain is occupied with counting how many times it’s thought about fire over the past week, “Mom and Kurt and the rest are so focused on Laura, and her problems, and how she has to be the head of the family when it’s her turn, it’s like there’s no one else, even though there’s me and Cora. And even Cora gets some attention, she’s always off to karate and sleepovers and—”

“Wait, _karate_?” Images storm through Stiles’s head at Cora – Older Cora – accidentally-on-purpose breaking the hands of kids left and right. Who in their right mind would— 

“See, you too!” Derek rolls his head back in frustration. “No one has enough time for me, not even Peter.” 

“Oh, no. Be glad about that, dude,” Stiles mutters under his breath. 

Not quietly enough, apparently, for Derek turns on him, expression fierce. “What is it about Peter that everyone hates so much? You, Mom, Kurt, even Laura doesn’t like him! He’s the only one who’s been looking out for me for the past year, when I’ve been having trouble controlling the shift—”

“Dude, you’re having trouble controlling the shift?” Stiles’s brain kicks into overdrive. The images of Cora on a karate-chopping rampage get shoved aside in favor of _Derek_ going on a rampage. Following on the heels of that is Kate, her smirk twisting up her face, as she levels a gun at Derek lying at her feet. 

No. Don’t think about it. Don’t. Think. About. It. Don’t think about – “That’s so ironic,” Stiles blurts out, “you’re having trouble controlling your shift and I’m having trouble shifting at all.” 

He blinks, looks at Derek. Derek is frozen half between hunched shoulders and a concerned expression, surprise dawning on him as he takes in Stiles’s words. He looks, succinctly, like a deer in headlights, which, _pfft!_

Helpless, Stiles bursts out into snickers. Get it? Like a deer in headlights, but a wolf? The hunter turns into the hunted? Anyone? 

Derek, looking confused, also starts laughing. Stiles laughs harder, bends over and stands his hands on his knees to keep from toppling over. It doesn’t stop Derek from shoving him over, demanding through chuckles to know “what’s so funny,” and oh, God, Stiles can’t. stop. laughing. 

“Stop it!” Derek hisses. 

“You stop it! You’re the one who keeps making me laugh,” Stiles returns, flailing out an arm for Derek’s shoulder. He hangs on with a desperate grip, tears leaking out the corners of his eyes, as Derek’s arm comes around his shoulders. 

“ _You’re_ the one who keeps laughing like a maniac!” Derek retorts. 

“Pfft, a maniac! Oh, God, stop,” Stiles moans, clutching at his stomach. “Just, okay, we gotta stop looking at each other. Let go, dude.” 

Over their heads, someone says: "What are you boys laughing about?" 

He looks up. The laughter dies a quick, sudden death. A heart attack, wolfsbane shot to the heart sudden death. 

Like she’s been summoned from his waking nightmare, Kate’s there, smiling down at them, looking back and forth between them. Stiles shudders as her gaze sweeps him up and down. _Ugh._

Her eyes widen as she gets a good look at them; they go from curiously amused to a wicked smirk, and she straightens up. Stiles gags as Kate's chest puffs out – ugh, ugh, ugh. So wrong, seriously, Spiderman beating Batman in a fight wrong, two plus two is five wrong, practicing kissing with Scott wrong— 

"Well, aren't you two handsome young men." Kate's voice grates on Stiles's ears, especially with how husky (urgh, does that actually work on people?) and low it's gotten. So, so wrong. "What's the matter, wolf got your tongue?" 

Freezing, Stiles stares up at Kate. Oh, my God, Kate. Kate's here. Finally! He has to tell the Hales, they can find out where she's hunkering – actually, he'd better do that, he doesn't want Kate anywhere near them, especially not—

Derek. Shit, Derek! Stiles whirls on Derek, somehow surprised to see him still standing there, and not writhing on the ground. In fact, he's chatting with Kate with a smile on his face – oh, no, nonono, no, this is not happening. 

"Sorry, we have to go," Stiles blurts, seizing Derek's arm. "We're – late for something. A movie! We're late for a movie! So, we gotta go, sorry, sorry—"

"What movie are we watching?" Derek asks. 

At the same time, Kate says, "Ooh, can I tag along?" 

She and Derek look at each other, turn to Stiles. 

"Uh," Stiles blanks. He frickin' blanks. So he does what he does best: opens his mouth and word vomits. "Uh, no, because my bro here and I, we've been wanting to watch this movie since forever, and it's kind of our last chance to see it, and it's really something only the two of us like, like it's super geeky, so it's not something you'd enjoy—"

"We're going to watch _The Spongebob Movie_ ," Derek supplies, earning the coveted spot of Stiles's most best favoritest person ever, sorry Scott, "and Stiles doesn't want anyone to know because he thinks it's embarrassing." He nudges Stiles. 

"It is embarrassing!" Stiles squawks. "It is not natural to love a talking sponge that much. It's a stupid cartoon, like, a really stupid cartoon, but watching it gives me joy, okay? Now, dude, we really do have to move. I gotta get my popcorn, you know how much I need my popcorn—"

He gives Derek meaningful eyes. Derek widens his in turn, but he's not Scott, he doesn't get what Stiles is trying to say. Still, when Stiles yanks on his arm, Derek comes easily. 

However, Kate, bitch that she is, says, "Oh, come on, a 'talking sponge' is more fun than hanging out with little ol' me? Come on, don't leave me heartbroken here," and slinks forward. Slowly. 

Damn, if Lydia had done that to him before the Great Heartbreak, that move would have made all the blood in his body rush south. Going by the look on Derek's face, it's having that effect on him. 

But Stiles takes a look at Kate's face, calculating and hungry, and he so isn't turned on by psychopathic hunter ladies. Is, in fact, very very turned off – and that enables him to tighten his grip on Derek's arm and bolt.

"Hey!" Derek shouts. "What are you doing?" 

Stiles looks over his shoulder at Kate, who's thrown back her head and is laughing as she watches them race away. Stiles runs faster, his grip on Derek's arm the only reason he doesn't smack into a lamppost, as Derek pulls him out of its way. 

"What is your problem, Stiles?" Derek hisses. "Why are you trying so hard to get away from her?" 

"Because," Stiles checks over his shoulder to see that Kate is still watching them. She lifts her hand in a lazy wave. "That's Kate. Kate Argent. The hunter? The one we're all looking high and low for?" 

"What?" Derek nearly jerks Stiles to a stop in his surprise. " _That's_ Kate Argent?" 

" _Yes_ ," Stiles retorts, yanks on Derek's arm. "Now come on, we need to get away from her as far and as fast as possible!" 

This time when Stiles runs, Derek is right there with him.

They get three or four blocks away before Stiles has to slow to a walk, wheezing and clutching at the stitch in his side. Derek, of course, looks fresh as a daisy, frowning down at Stiles. "Hey, are you okay?" he asks, reaching out a hand as if to put it on Stiles's shoulder. 

"Of course, I'm not okay," Stiles pants, " That was Kate, Kate's here, and she's, she kills—" 

He breaks off with a _"urgkch"_ as his throat clamps down on him. Not again! Flailing, he catches at Derek as he chokes, feeling like a big ball of something is lodged in his throat and he can't get it out. Just as he's really panicking, coughing hard, his throat opens up again, and he can swallow like the ball was never there. 

"Stiles?" Derek is hovering over him, his rainbow eyes on Stiles's face. Stiles waves him off, still focused on being able to swallow and breathe properly. 

"I'm – all right." Damn, his voice is scratchy as all hell. "But dude, we've gotta," he stops to clear his throat, "call someone. Tell them about her." 

Of all the times not to have his phone on him. Not for the first time, he wishes he'd said fuck it to the ritual's ban on anything other than clothes and stuck his phone in his pocket anyway. Fuck Lydia's rants on the limits of metaphysics anyway, he's seen twins merge into a huge-ass monster, that means he could have taken a tiny, practically weightless phone with him into the ether—

"Okay. I'll call Peter." 

"What?" Stiles watches, mouth open, as Derek pulls a seriously, seriously old Nokia brick out of practically nowhere. "Since when have you had a phone?" 

"Since I was thirteen," Derek says distractedly. He's busy pressing the button on the top of the phone, eyebrows furrowing as he holds it down and keeps holding it down. Finally, the screen switches on, only to show the Nokia logo as it loads. 

"How long does it take to turn on?" Stiles gapes after a few seconds of Nokia logo. "Jeez!" 

Derek rolls his eyes. "It takes forever," he agrees, "but it's the only one Mom will let me or Laura have, since we broke the first two phones she gave us." 

"Let me guess, they were flip phones," Stiles snarks. 

"Yeah, Mom wasn't too pleased when we broke them," Derek winces. "Aha!" 

Stiles watches as on the teeny screen, Derek uses the arrows and the round button underneath the screen to navigate to his contacts, where he scrolls, repeatedly punching the down arrow, until he gets to "Peter." 

"Wait, you're calling _Peter_?" 

"Yeah, that's what I said," Derek says, annoyed. He punches the Call button before Stiles can stop him. "What's wrong with Peter?"

"Uhh, that he's not trustworthy?" 

"He is, too!" Derek protests. "He's the only one who - Oh, hey, Uncle Pete. I'm glad you picked up."

Pete? Derek calls Peter Uncle Pete? Oh, God, there's not enough brain bleach in the world. Stiles tries to scratch his ears out as Derek goes on, "No, no, nothing's wrong. Well, we just ran into the, uh, person of interest the whole family is going on about—"

Even to Stiles's supernatural-free, all-too-human ears, Peter's _"WHAT"_ is audible. Derek winces, but hurries to say, "We're all right, nothing's happened. Stiles got us away before she could, like, kidnap us or anything." 

" _Stiles is with you?_ " Peter says. Then Derek puts the phone back to his ear and Peter's voice is muffled. Stiles still hears to hear the interest in Peter’s tone, can’t help but flash back to a certain parking garage. 

_“I can hear the lie in your voice,” Peter smirks, his red eyes boring into Stiles. “Your heartbeat gives you away.”_

"Near the boutique," Derek says, startling Stiles out of his reverie. "Mrs. Miller's – which other boutique is there?" 

What the hell is Derek talking about? There’s no boutique on Main. The closest thing they have to a boutique on Main is the florist's. 

"Wait, you're calling Mom?" Derek's voice spikes higher, goes panicky. "Peter, do you have to?"

Whatever Peter says on the other end has Derek slumping. "Fine. Yeah, whatever, Peter. What? No way, I'm not – Fine. I said fine, Peter, I'm not Cora, I know how to sit and stay like a good boy. Fine. Fine. Goodbye." 

Derek stabs the END CALL button. Stiles is honestly surprised the phone doesn't break underneath the assault, but then again, he guesses that's why Derek has that phone and not the crappy flip phone version. 

"So... we're stuck here?" he ventures. 

"Yeah," Derek says, scowling. "Until Mom can pick us up." 

"You, uh, don't seem too happy about that," Stiles points out. 

"I'm not a baby," Derek crosses his arms. "I can look after myself just fine. I don't need Mom coming in all the time." 

Stiles eyes Derek up and down. Tall (not as tall as he would be) with a solid frame and his already signature Resting Bitch Face, a few years from now, nobody would dispute that statement. As it is now… yeahh, not so much. 

Derek must see what Stiles is thinking, for his glare multiplies in magnitude. Stiles would be scared, except he's withstood the glares of Older Derek and various members of the Alpha Pack Alphas – Derek's has nothing on them. He actually looks more adorable than threatening, the furrow in his forehead over his caterpillar eyebrows ruining any ferocity the look might have had. 

"Gotta work on your glare, bro," Stiles advises, reaching out to pat Derek on the shoulder. "It's a little weak." 

“Shut up,” Derek snaps. 

Stiles would totally tease him more, except, wait. Wait wait wait waiiiiiiit. Derek’s mom is coming. Derek’s mom who is Mrs. Hale. Mrs. Hale is coming. She’s coming here. And going by her protective instincts that he’s already seen while he was on her territory, she’s going to be in a _great_ mood. 

"Oh, dude." Stiles runs his hand over his head. Jeez, he really needs to get a haircut (he feels like he's had this thought before). "Just great. Fantastic way to start my day." There’s no way Mrs. Hale is not going to blame him for this. She’s going to demand that he stay away from them and then that’s his one job fucked up all over again. Fuck. 

"First Peter, now my mom? What's with you all of a sudden?" 

Stiles looks up at a glaring Derek. “Huh? What? What’re you talking about?” 

“I’m talking about you,” Derek retorts. “Why are you so distrusting all of a sudden? I thought you liked my mom? But then Peter comes up and you hate him and Mom?" 

"Whoa, whoa, dude. I don't hate your mom, where'd you get that idea?" Stiles is totally bewildered here, not going to lie. What is Derek talking about? 

"So it's just Peter, then." Derek crosses his arms. His – okay, not as big as Older Derek's arms (he knew noticing Older Derek’s arms was going to come back and bite him in the ass one day) – but no slouch arms, either – arms which make Derek a little more.... 

Nope, can't even say it to himself. Derek's still adorable in his protectiveness, even if Stiles is torn between wanting to squish Derek’s cheeks and groaning about this being brought up again. 

"Look, no offense, okay? But Peter, he gives off seriously creepy vibes," at which Derek rolls his eyes but relaxes, hooray for Stiles, "and he, uh, well, he—"

"He what?" Derek butts in, impatient, when Stiles trails off. He raises those caterpillar eyebrows at Stiles in such mimicry of Older Derek that Stiles gets the chills.

Besides, how do you tell a dude that his uncle, with whom he's clearly close, is – was – might become a murdering psychopath who kills his own family for power and has no compunctions about biting and manipulating teenagers for his own gain?

Yeahhh, that's going to go over well. Not.

"He just creeps me out," Stiles says, feeling lame. "He sets off my Stiles senses." 

"Your what?" Derek's eyebrows fly from scrunched down to high on his forehead. Oh, right, he's never been introduced to Stiles's Evil Person Radar. Not that that worked with Miss Blake – he'd never have guessed she was the Darach at first glance. But with Matt and Gerard, and most especially Peter, it worked just fine. Three out of four is still a passing grade. 

He's opened his mouth to explain when a _RRRrrrRRRRRummm_ overwhelms anything he would say. Derek's face splits open on a grin, so Stiles has a pretty good idea who it is before he turns around — and yup, it's Peter. Not only Peter, but Peter on a _motorcycle_. 

What. The. Fuck. 

Peter slides to a stop in front of them, smoothly kicking the stand down and flipping the visor of his helmet up. Showoff. “Derek, get over here,” he orders, but Derek is already hurrying over to him. Stiles is so not comfortable with the adoring expression on Derek’s face, directed at Peter, God, but Derek is too fast for the arm Stiles puts out to stop him. 

Of course, Peter’s eyes miss nothing, and the eyebrow he sends Stiles’s way is full of Hale sass. Ugh. 

“I thought you were going to call Mom,” Derek says happily, breaking their staring contest. 

“I did,” Peter says, looking down at Derek. “She’s on her way as we speak, likely.” 

“Awww.” Derek slumps again. 

Peter smirks, ruffles Derek’s hair. “Now, Derek, don’t be like that. You know your mom just wants what’s best for you.” 

“Whatever.” Derek swipes at Peter. “What are you doing here, anyway, if Mom’s on her way?” 

“I’m going to check out the scene,” Peter says. He finally climbs off of his motorcycle, setting it to lean against its kickstand and placing his helmet under the seat. “You said Mrs. Miller’s boutique?” 

“Yeah, up that way.” Derek points in the direction he and Stiles ran from. Peter looks up that way, and the corner of his eye flashes. 

“Got it,” Peter says. “Stay here. I’ll just head up that way and see what I can catch.” 

Without further ado, Peter whirls on his heel and stalks off. 

“Uhh?” Stiles flails at Peter’s retreating back. “What is he doing?” 

Derek looks at him oddly. “He just said he was going to check it out.” The _‘duh’_ is very clearly audible. 

Instantly, Stiles says, “Oh, no, nonono, that is a bad idea,” 

He makes as if to go after Peter, but Derek grabs his shoulder. “What are you doing?” 

“I’m stopping Peter from showing up right after Kate saw us,” Stiles tells him. His own _‘duh’_ is equally audible. 

“Why?” 

“Uh, because people showing up and sniffing around not long after she harassed some kids is not suspicious at all?” Stiles thinks he can be forgiven his incredulity – after all, Hales are not known for their subtlety. Like, at all. 

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that, Peter’s the best at passing,” Derek waves, dismissive. “Passing as human,” he adds at Stiles’s look. 

What. What did that mean. “What does that mean?” Stiles splutters. “I thought – Wait, you mean some wolves don’t pass as human?” 

Derek’s face closes down a little. “Well, most of us, we look human on the outside, but we can give ourselves away.”

“How would you give yourselves away? Oh, you mean like wolfing out when under stress?” Stiles remembers the first days of Scott’s werewolflihood vividly. Very. Vividly. 

Derek’s shrug is stiff. “Something like that.” 

“But that’s not the only way? Also, only most of you look human?” Stiles’s brain is whirring a mile a minute. How else could someone out themselves as a wolf if not from shifting in public? And how many wolves in Beacon Hills alone have given the game away, not to mention the world? By “most of us look human,” does that mean there are other people like Peter’s Rogue Alpha form out there? The idea is mind-boggling. 

“Look, leave it alone, okay?” Derek snaps. “I don’t want to talk about it, so just leave it alone!” 

“Whoa, dude, calm down.” Stiles holds up his hands placatingly. “Sheesh, touchy much?” 

Derek just looks away, his arms still crossed, face creased in that Moody Derek Expression Stiles has come to hate on Older Derek. Great.

“Just answer me this: There are other ways besides shifting than can give the game away, right?” What? Stiles never met an uncomfortable topic he didn’t like to push, push, push at. 

He gets a Glare of Doom Lite for his efforts, so he decides that yeah, he’d better back off. That doesn’t mean he can’t leave the topic for later. Much later. When Derek forgets his Woe Is Me mindset and is up to answering more questions. 

For now, looks like he’s going to have to get Derek’s mind off of it or else deal with Sulk Central for longer than he has years to live. “So! What sport do you play, dude?”

:-:-:-:

When the Saturn Vue finally roars up, Stiles is so relieved, he could kiss it. In between Awkward Silences and Stiles’s (unsuccessful) attempts to make conversation about everything else under the sun except for werewolves, Derek kept trying to pester Stiles about his skeeviness of Peter or about Stiles's pack. At least once he came out of his brooding funk instead of leaving Stiles to flounder around by himself. Typical.

He only stops when the door of the Saturn Vue opens and Laura's there with a hot yellow gaze and a "Are you all right?" Her arm flashes out, lightning fast, to yank Derek into the car. 

"Hey! I can get in by myself, thanks!" Derek yelps. Laura ignores him, dragging until Derek is on the other side of her. Stiles is left to climb in by himself, sitting awkwardly next to Laura, who twists to glare at him. Great. Really feeling the love. 

As Laura is attempting to eviscerate him through the power of her Yellow Glare of Doom alone, Mrs. Hale turns around in her seat. 

"Are you all right? She didn't hurt you or anything?" 

Derek looks like he wants to roll his eyes. "No, Mom, we're fine." He makes no attempt to break away from the hand Mrs. Hale lays on his cheek. "In fact, she seemed more focused on Stiles than on me." 

Stiles finds himself the object of not one, not two, but three intense gazes. 

"Is this true?" Mrs. Hale asks. 

"No?" Stiles asks-answers, although looking back on it (brr, not a thing he ever wants to do again), it does seem like she was. Good. The more attention he can get away from the Hales, the better. "I was mostly focused on trying to get Derek the f-fffreak out of there." 

"Derek? Not yourself?" Oh, there goes the Hale Eyebrow of Doom. Seriously, it must be a Hale thing, to say entire sentences with just the eyebrows. "Stiles?" 

"Huh?" Stiles looks at Mrs. Hale properly, sees she's got the forced patience look on, the one that says he's lost track of the conversation and needs to back on it, stat. Right, wait, what were they talking about? "Oh, uh, no. I didn't want her to, like, get fixated on Derek or whatever – plus she was seriously giving off the Bad Touch Vibes." 

"'Bad Touch Vibes'?" Mrs. Hale's eyebrows scrunch down. Entire. Sentences. 

"Yeah, it was really weird, she kept trying to go along with us to our 'movie.' Stiles made it up as an excuse not to hang around," Derek explains. 

“Which movie were you going to go see?” Mrs. Hale wants to know. 

"The Spongebob one." 

"Spongebob, really?" Laura's eyes may no longer be yellow, but Judgy McJudgerson is in full effect. 

"And yet you're the one who knows what that is," Stiles retorts. 

"Tell me more about these 'Bad Touch Vibes'," Mrs. Hale says, patiently. Oops. "Did she actually touch you?" 

"No," Stiles and Derek say together. They look at each other; Stiles gestures for Derek to go first. "No, she kept saying things like 'don't leave me heartbroken here,' and uh, standing like, uh—"

Derek's face goes aflame. Stiles, remembering what Derek's referring to, feels sick all over again. God, what a perverted, sadistic bitch. 

"She was hitting on you? Two teenagers? Isn't she, like, thirty?" Laura's mouth turns down into a moue. 

"More like twenty-five," Stiles corrects, "but yeah, she's got a taste for nubile, underage flesh." 

At that, Mrs. Hale casts him a sharp look. Stiles doesn't understand why until: "She didn't.... When she hunted your pack before, she didn't... do anything to you, did she?" 

"Oh! No." Stiles flails in the language of _no way, you don't have to worry about me, I'm totally fine, see?_ Mrs. Hale doesn't seem to be get it, going by the way her eyes narrow. 

Stiles hastens to reassure her further, "No, she, uh, just made a lot of comments about Scott. Skeevy things, yeah, but nothing other than that." And she was even older at the time when she said those things than she is now, which takes the creepy pedophile thing up a few more notches. 

Still has nothing on Older Peter, though. Stiles shivers, involuntarily.

When he looks up, Mrs. Hale is still staring at him with those narrow eyes. Stiles’s internal klaxon of _Oh shit_ starts ringing; he recognizes that look from his dad and his deputies, as well as more than a few teachers. It’s that look of _I know you’re in trouble, and come hell or high water, I’m going to find out what it is._

Seriously not what Stiles needs right now. They’re supposed to be focusing on Kate, not him. Stiles is not the important one here.

“Dude, shouldn’t we be moving?” he says as obnoxiously as possible. “Where are we going, anyway?” 

“Yeah, Mom, where _are_ we going?” Derek pipes up. 

“Back home, duh.” Laura rolls her eyes. “You’ve just become the most liable member of the pack, we’ve got to protect you until Peter comes back with what he finds.”

“Yeah, about that, we’re really sending Peter to do the investigative stuff?” Stiles asks. It’s just so weird to him to see Peter being a halfway normal packmate, let alone having people who trust him to do something for more than just Fucking Shit Up and Being Obnoxious reasons.

“Not we,” Mrs. Hale says. 

“What’s this ‘we’ stuff?” Laura says at the same time. 

Oh. For a second there, Stiles forgot where he is and, more importantly, when he is. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. Of course they’re not going to include him, he’s not part of their pack. Stupid, that he felt for one second like he was part of something again.

“Hey, Stiles?” Derek’s voice is tentative, even as Laura shifts in her seat, bodily pushing into Stiles. “You okay? 

Oh yeah, he’s totally fine. He only feels like he’s been sucker-punched six ways to Sunday, no big deal. “Yeah, I’m fine. So, if you’re going home, you can just drop me off at Deaton’s—”

“Oh, no, you’re coming too.” Finally, Mrs. Hale turns around and starts the car. 

Uhh, what? “What?” What, he never claimed he was the fastest brain around. That title would always belong to Lydia. “But you just said—” 

“Mom, what are you doing?” Laura interrupts. 

“You were also there when Kate showed up,” Mrs. Hale says, keeping her eyes on the road as she pulls out from the curb (of which Stiles is appreciative. No, really. The number of times he’s had to tell Scott to _keep his eyes on the road—_ ) “We’ll need you to tell us everything you know, especially since Kate seemed so focused on you.” 

Well. This isn’t getting awkward at all, no way, Jose. “Okaaaayyyy, this is sounding more and more like an interrogation,” he jokes. 

“Yeah, right, like you know anything about real interrogations,” Laura snorts. 

“Uh, since my dad is the Sheriff, I actually do?” Stiles gets the pleasure of seeing Laura’s eyes go wide. “Of course, I’ve never been interrogated personally,” although his dad’s lectures and disappointed faces would make anybody cringe and fess up their crimes, no interrogation necessary, “but I’ve seen him at work, and the other deputies, too.” 

“Your dad’s the Sheriff? Of what town?” Derek jumps up to ask. Ugh, he would ask, this is exactly what he’d been prying for since he started up pestering Stiles for information on his pack. And Stiles just gave it all away with one well-placed scoff on Laura’s part. Seriously, great job, Stilinski. Uh, Vrilinski. 

“Of where I’m from,” Stiles manages to sketch by with. Derek’s disappointed face is almost as heart-jerking as Scott’s puppy dog eyes. Except Stiles is immune to those (mostly), so Derek’s disappointment doesn’t make much of a dent. “Yeah, good try there, Der.” 

Predictably, Laura snaps, “Don’t call him that.”

“Children,” Mrs. Hale says placidly. 

Immediately Laura and Derek sit upright in their seats, looking contrite (or as contrite as Laura ever gets). Wow, Mrs. Hale is even more badass than Stiles thought. 

“You know, Stiles, it wouldn’t be so bad for you to tell us a little bit more about your pack,” Mrs. Hale says, when she’s certain that Laura and Derek are going to behave. “We could help you get justice for your pack if we knew who they were. Where they patrolled. What area your pack held as its territory.” 

Scott’s face flashes into his head, the puppy dog eyes in full effect. Mrs. Hale’s voice is casual, but soothing, until his brain catches up with the words she’s actually saying. Oh, no, no way. There’s no way he’s going to be able to answer that. _Oh, my pack’s territory was Beacon Hills, except nine years in the future, because you guys were dead and not around to keep it._ Suuuuuuuuure. That would totally fly as an answer. 

“Sorry,” and even he can tell his voice is bitter, “but if I told you that, I’m pretty sure something bad would happen to me.” 

“Like what?” Laura wants to know, Hale Eyebrow raised. 

“We can protect you from Kate,” Mrs. Hale says. Her eyes flick briefly to his in the rearview mirror. “You don’t have to worry about retaliation from her if that’s what you’re worried about.” 

Stiles barks a laugh. “Pretty sure that’s not something I’m worried about.” No, it isn’t retaliation against him that is the problem here. He’s probably still hoarse from choking on air not too long ago. But he’s gotta say this in a way that won’t come back on him later, choking thing or not. “Pretty sure that with my pack gone, any thoughts of retaliation went out the window.” 

Well, aside from the thoughts of him retaliating against the whole start of the chain of events that cascaded in everyone he loves dying, but those don’t count. It isn’t really revenge if only one person dies, instead of a whole group, right? 

Older Peter would know, not that Stiles ever plans to ask him. 

With that logic to comfort him, he almost misses the look that Mrs. Hale gives him. Yikes, that eyebrow is not to be messed with. Also, she totally knows what he’s thinking. In fact, she almost looks like she understands? Weird, he would have thought she’d be disapproving. 

Well, whatever. They’re headed to the Hale House now, and that’s where he’ll be grilled to within an inch of his life. Knowing Kurt, he’ll be angling to make it more than an inch. (Or is that less than an inch? Whichever one ends up in a deader Stiles, that’s the one that Kurt will try to go for. He can probably count on Mrs. Hale not to let Kurt kill him outright, but how close Kurt gets in the process is up for debate. Stiles really wishes it weren’t, but it’s out of his hands. Like so much else in this time.) 

This is going to be so much fun.

:-:-:-:

“Talia!”

The instant the Hale Mystery Machine stops in front of the Hale House, Kurt’s grizzled face is in the window. “What happened?” 

“Whoa!” Stiles, closest to the window, jerks back, nearly braining himself on the seat. “Dude! Chill!” 

“What’s he doing here?” Oh, yeah, that’s a look to kill. Stiles would be six feet under and plummeting if that were a Death Ray power. Thank God Kurt isn’t Cyclops. Or Scarecrow.

Then Kurt’s face contorts, and he turns to Derek, gritting out, “Urgh, you were near that woman’s boutique, weren’t you. I can tell by the godawful smell.”

Stiles snorts. Which turns out to be a bad move, because it brings Kurt’s eyes, once more flashing electric blue, onto him. 

“We’re fine, Kurt,” Mrs. Hale interrupts with a Look. “Can I turn the car off?” 

“...Oh.” Kurt disappears from the window. Mrs. Hale turns the car off, and almost before their seatbelts clear their bodies, Laura and Derek pile out. Stiles follows a little slower, but only because he doesn’t have wolf mojo to help him. Stupid wolfy powers. So unfair. 

Not that he’s bitter or anything. 

“But you are all right?” Kurt is demanding of Mrs. Hale when Stiles comes around the car. He glances at Stiles with that electric blue flash, but continues, “We heard the Saturn tear out of here like there was a fire.” 

Ouch, bad choice of words, Stiles winces. But, wait, no, it isn't. The fire hasn't happened yet, so there's no reason for it to be. A bad choice of words, that is. Gah, so confusing. 

“Yes,” Mrs. Hale says, the exasperation Stiles is used to seeing directed at him now for Kurt. Hah, serves Ol’ Grizzly right. “Now, let’s start over. Hello, Kurt. How are you?” 

Kurt looks taken aback, then sheepish, which, dude, mind-blowing much? The grumpiest Second ever, outdoing Older Derek by a mile, done in by a simple hello, how are you. “Hello, Talia. Kids.”

“Hey, Kurt!” Laura and Derek chirp. In unison. Where they’re both already at the door to the Hale House. God, it’s like the Wonder Twins or something. Only thing they need are the rings, seriously. Hell, they even have the transforming part down pat! Heh.

“Do we need to have another talk about boundaries?” Mrs. Hale asks. 

“Yeah, Kurt, boundaries,” Laura teases over her shoulder. Derek snickers, even as Stiles looks at her incredulously. _Laura_ is talking about boundaries? Laura “In Your Face, Literally” is on Kurt’s case about boundaries??

“Don’t start, Laura,” Mrs. Hale says, discreetly rolling her eyes. “You’re not the one who should be talking about boundaries.” 

“Thank you!” Stiles gestures at Mrs. Hale. 

Mrs. Hale turns a tolerant look onto Stiles, while Kurt’s hackles get back up. “Why are you here?” he accuses. 

“I brought him here,” Mrs. Hale says. “Calm down, Kurt.” 

“Talia—” Both Mrs. Hale's and Kurt's heads jolt. A smile spreads across Mrs. Hale’s face. "It won't be long now," Mrs. Hale says. "Peter feels like he's got something." 

"Huh? How do you figure?" Stiles casts a confused look her way. “Don’t tell me you have some kind of psychic link with him?” 

"In a manner of speaking," Mrs. Hale says wryly. 

"Really? That’s a thing? I always figured those were bullshit. Y'know, because Scott never seemed to—"

Stiles is cut off by a hand at his collar. Oh, hello Kurt, there’s the manhandling Stiles has been missing so much. "Pack bonds are not 'bullshit',” Kurt growls in his face. "Now, I don't know if you're doing this deliberately, which you must be, you can't be this consistently offensive so many times without working at it, but I have had enough of your—"

Kurt freezes with a gasp. His hand tightens on Stiles's shirt, then convulsively opens. Stiles hurriedly steps away, taking in Kurt's wide eyes as Mrs. Hale comes around and looks coolly down at Kurt's petrified wood expression. 

" _I_ don't appreciate having to order you down so much," Mrs. Hale says in a deadly cool tone to match her expression. "This is the fifth time. You are an adult, and the Second of this pack. It's past time you behaved like one, instead of attacking people who offend you, especially a teenager whose education is clearly lacking—"

"Hey! I'm competing with Danny for salutatorian!" Stiles yelps. 

"—about pack culture, and who, incidentally, is trying to learn about it. By asking questions."

Mrs. Hale (who, Stiles sees now, has Kurt by the back of his neck. Dude, no wonder Growly Grump froze, she's not holding on to him tightly, but those claws are not messing around) lets go. Hunching in on himself, Kurt puts a hand to his neck, which is bleeding, holy God, what the hell! 

"Apologize to Alpha Vrilinski, now,” Mrs. Hale orders. Kurt visibly shudders as MRs. Hale’s humid wash of power rises, flares out. “Before you give him even more grounds to demand reparation from us. Do it properly."

"Oh, no, dude,” Stiles waves his hands, “it's okay, I totally wouldn't, uh, demand reparations or whatever – what is that, anyway, what would that even entail, is there a court or something I'd take you to, because, dude, I would so have done that with the Alph – and I'm going to stop talking now." 

Stiles stammers to a stop as Mrs. Hale's heavy gaze finally sinks in. Damn, Derek - Older Derek – both of them – really needed more pointers or something, because that is some effective Stare of Doom. 

Rather than say thank you or otherwise acknowledge Stiles's newfound respect for her Powers of Silencing, rude, Mrs. Hale just turns to Kurt and stares at him. With the Eyebrow of Doom, too! Dude, Kurt is in so much trouble. 

Kurt knows it, too, for he clears his throat and looks away, over to Stiles. "Vrilinski—"

"Alpha Vrilinski," Mrs. Hale adds pointedly. 

So. Much. Trouble.

"Alpha Vrilinski," Kurt winces. "I apologize for attacking you so often." 

"And." 

"And for not stopping to think beyond my initial impression of you," Kurt continues. "I should have realized how ignorant you were—"

"Ignorant?" Stiles squawks. At the same time, Mrs. Hale growls. Whoa, Stiles felt that. He felt that, like, in his bones. Dude. But that's nothing compared to effect on Kurt, who has paled, and is that sweat on his forehead? 

"I mean, how much you didn't know about pack!" Kurt hurries to say. Mrs. Hale's growl eases, but Kurt doesn't relax. "I should have acted like the Second of the Hale pack and treated you with respect, instead of looking at you as an insulting teenager who doesn’t deserve the Alpha power he has. I'm sorry." 

Both he and Mrs. Hale look at Stiles expectantly. Stiles has to fight against the hysterical laughter trying its level best to claw out of him. This is so bizarre. Two adults, one making the other apologize to Stiles – Stiles of all people – for not treating him with respect. He’s about the last person anyone needs to apologize to, what with his own laundry list of defects – annoying and mouthy being two of them. Yet here they are, looking very serious about this. 

“Uh,” his voice cracks, so he has to swallow – at least it didn’t break and squeak, thank God this isn’t last year - “thanks?” 

Both Mrs. Hale and Kurt relax, the latter with a deep breath, the former’s eyes losing their red tinge. Stiles, in turn, feels like the air’s gone out of him like a very tightly-strung balloon suddenly let go. 

“Thank you, Stiles,” Mrs. Hale says, with, like, real gratitude. Awk. Ward. 

“Sure, I guess.” Stiles tries to shrug. “I mean, you’re not exactly wrong, about me not deserving the Alpha mojo. But, dude, I didn’t exactly ask for it in the first place, either. Or know I had it, for sure, until three days ago. So, a little slack would have been. Yeah.” 

“Three days ago? We’ve been telling you that you were an Alpha since we met you,” Mrs. Hale points out. 

“Yeah, I didn’t believe you,” Stiles says frankly. “Not when I didn’t feel any different and didn’t want to believe I was different. More different than I already am.” 

At that, Mrs. Hale sighs. "Teenagers," she mutters. 

“Hey, I resemble that remark,” Stiles quips. 

Surprisingly, Kurt's the one to snort at that. 

“What made you change your mind?” 

Stiles gives Mrs. Hale a wry smile. “Not much denial you can keep yourself in when you see red eyes in the mirror." 

Mrs. Hale’s mouth turns up at the corner. “You’d be surprised.” 

“Try me,” he invites. “I’m the king of denial. My usual method of solving problems is to ignore them until they go away. It’s a Stil— Vrilinski family trait.” 

“How often has that worked out for you?” Mrs. Hale raises a challenging eyebrow. 

“Not at all,” Stiles admits without shame, making Mrs. Hale snort. “It doesn’t stop me from trying, though, at least not until it blows up in my face.” 

Beside and behind Mrs. Hale, where he’s retreated after his little apology, Kurt is pinching the bridge of his nose. Mrs. Hale sighs again, but this time it’s that fond sort of sigh like his dad makes – used to make – whenever Stiles was being especially _Stiles_. 

"Hey, don't lie, you totally thought that was funny," Stiles needles, finger guns it. 

Mrs. Hale gets a pained look on her face. "You’re not old enough to use those. Just stop," reminding Stiles so much of Older Derek that Stiles actually gets an ache for the dude in his general chest region. 

“What, you don’t appreciate my finger gunning skills?” Stiles mock sniffs. “Man, what a tough crowd.” 

“Ugh,” Kurt says. Stiles opens his mouth, but Kurt’s not even looking at him. Rude. 

“And on that note,” Mrs. Hale says, amusement in her tone, “I’d like to talk to you about something else.” The smile falls away from her face. “Since you have now officially recognized that you are an Alpha—” 

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” Stiles groans. 

“That means that you should be getting something in the way of training,” Mrs. Hale finishes. “As no doubt you remember from our conversation in the clinic, it’s… odd that you aren’t having more of a reaction to your Alpha spark, given that you are new to it and, it seems, to being a werewolf in the first place. 

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m pleasantly surprised,” she says as Stiles opens his mouth to say something along the lines of _of course I get it wrong,_ “but I think it would be prudent to get something of a foundation down to help you understand and control your new ‘mojo’—”

“Ha!” Stiles says gleefully. 

Mrs. Hale’s mouth turns up again. “—and also to find you an anchor before your first full moon. As soon as possible.” 

Oh. Crap. He hasn’t even thought about that. That’s right, being a werewolf, and an Alpha on top of that (he still can’t quite believe it, no matter what he says to the contrary, it just seems too weird, no wonder Scott was resistant to the idea at first) means he has to deal not only with the anger management problems, but also the full moon. Craaaaaaap. 

Seeing the realization on Stiles’s face, Mrs. Hale nods. “I see you know what I’m talking about. Good, that makes getting you to agree easier.” 

“That doesn’t sound ominous at all,” Stiles points out. Mrs. Hale smirks. “That doesn’t make it any better, either.” 

“Be that as it may,” Mrs. Hale says, still with that smirk. “After Peter finally gets here, you and I are going to go over to Alan’s to see what we can do about setting up a time and place. Likely, Alan will volunteer his clinic, since it’s the safest place and most neutral for us to meet, but it never hurts to get his input on things, especially if he has someplace else in mind for the two of us to go that would best help you settle things down.” 

“Yeahhh, that wasn’t cryptic at all,” Stiles shakes his head. “Are you sure that you and Deaton didn’t go to the same School of Cryptic Mystic?” 

“Who do you think taught him everything he knows?” Mrs. Hale arches her eyebrows. 

Stiles gapes. 

Mrs. Hale’s smile returns. “You are too fun.” 

“Not fair!” Stiles protests. “That was – that was uncalled for! Party foul!” 

_Rrrrrummmmmm._ It’s a faint sound, but it’s more than enough for Stiles to recognize it. Guess Peter’s back. 

“Uncle Peter!” 

There’s a blur out of the corner of his eye, then something slams past him. Stiles staggers back with the force of the backwash, which narrowly saves him from being tackled out of the way by two more somethings. 

“You okay?” 

Stiles looks up at Caleb. “Who was driving that semi wheeler truck that just tried to run me over?” 

Caleb chuckles. “Cora never did know how to moderate her speed when she was excited. Makes karate class an interesting lesson in control.” 

“That was Cora?” Stiles gapes. 

“And Laura and Derek right after,” Caleb confirms. “You wanna come in? They’ll be a while, Peter isn’t even at the driveway yet.” 

“Uh, sure.” Stiles looks around one more time to make sure that no more werewolf impressions of eighteen-wheelers are coming, then takes a step onto the porch. Or, he tries to. 

Instead his foot just comes down on more grass, although the porch was right there under his foot. “What the hell…?” 

Caleb’s eyebrows fly up his forehead. “That’s so strange, I’ve never seen that happen like that before.” 

“You’ve seen this happen before?” Stiles asks. 

“Not like that,” Caleb nods to Stiles’s foot resting just in front of the porch stair. “Usually it’s a lot more….”

“A lot more what?” Stiles asks. 

Just then the hair rises on the back of his neck, and there’s a flash of blue out of the corner of his eye. Stiles turns just as a hand lands on his shoulder, aaaaand hello, that’s Kurt glowering right in his face. Guess that apology meant nothing, huh? 

“Don’t think that because Talia has allowed you to come onto the territory once means you can come and go as you please.” 

Kurt’s not overtly hostile (by “not overtly hostile,” that just means he’s not slamming Stiles up against something and choking him to death, and oh my God, Older Derek makes _so much sense_ now), but those are definitely the Eyes of Murderous Intent, and that rumble in Kurt’s chest does not promise Good Things.

“She kicked you out of here before, and she has every right to kick you out again if you don’t keep your hands to yourself,” Kurt growls. “Do you understand me?” 

“Actually, what she said was that you couldn’t offer me asylum,” Stiles blurts out. “She didn’t say anything about being on your territory.” 

There’s a brief moment of shock, then Kurt growls and lets go of Stiles’s shoulder. Dude, miracles do happen after all. 

“You can try getting up the stairs all you want,” Kurt suits action to words, “but without Talia’s welcome, you aren’t getting anywhere.” 

“What does that mean?” Stiles shouts, but Kurt ignores him. “Hey come on, you can’t just leave a guy hanging!” 

Kurt just opens the door and disappears without answering him. Ugh, werewolves! So rude! 

Caleb, when Stiles looks back at him, looks apologetic. “Sorry, but Kurt’s right. It seems Talia hasn’t officially given you a ‘Welcome to the Den’ message, so you’re kind of stuck out here until she does.” 

“Great, that’s just great, just what I need to extend this absolutely fabulous day,” Stiles snarks. “Always wanted to know what it felt like being left out in the cold from a big house.” 

Caleb shrugs one shoulder. “If it helps, I can stay with you?” 

For a moment, Stiles is sorely tempted to say yes. He doesn’t do well by himself, he really doesn’t, like half the things he’s done in his life are to make sure that he isn’t by himself, despite Fates, the Powers that Be, the Universe, whatever conspiring against him to make sure that he is alone. But then he sighs, flaps a hand. 

“Naw, dude, you go on in. I’ll just… hang around until something happens.” 

“If you’re sure,” Caleb checks. “All right, then. Just say the word if you need anything.” And off Caleb goes.

As soon as the door closes, Stiles immediately regrets it. Now he has no one to distract him from the horrible reality that oh, yeah, they just ran into Kate Argent, and oh, yeah, there’s one more (magic!) aspect in which Stiles is Very Obviously Not Welcome. Putting his hands on his hips, he turns around and surveys the lawn, which, can you call it a lawn when it's not even a lawn in the traditional sense, just an extension of the Preserve? The maintenance must be a bitch, given how huge it is. Do they use one of those lawn mower cars like the John Deere commercials they’re always showing? 

Stiles has always wanted to ride on one of those, but he could never convince his dad to get them one. No matter how much he said it would make his chores easier, prevent sunburn, reduce how sweaty he got, and thus reduce showering time, the waste of water, and was therefore beneficial to the environment! He still doesn’t understand how his dad didn’t agree after those convincing arguments.

A chatter of voices has him raising his head, and dude, he must be dreaming or hallucinating or not seeing right or something, for there is no way he can believe the things that his eyes are seeing right now. There is no way that, coming up the driveway, that that is Peter wheeling along on his motorcycle, a suspiciously familiar (thought way smaller than he’s used to) monkey werewolf clinging to his back, Derek and Laura on either side of them laughing and snarking, with Mrs. Hale looking on with an indulgent expression. 

What. The hell.

Peter looks so… normal right now. Like, Stiles had noticed how young Peter looked when he came up to them outside of the boutique, but he’d been more focused on Derek’s safety and hadn’t taken in much other than the sameness of those cold blue eyes. Now that his attention is undivided (so to speak, ADHD means it’s never undivided for long unless he’s in Hyper Focus Mode), he can take in the details. 

Like this, with Cora around his neck and the rest of the family surrounding him, Peter looks almost soft, like he could actually be someone’s uncle. His expression is not the hard, calculating expression Stiles is so used to seeing on Older Peter, and the laughter that he can hear is genuine, not mocking – at least until he turns to Laura and snarks at her – Stiles knows that expression like the back of his hand. 

None of the other family members seem aware of the snake they have their midst – the wolf in sheep’s clothing, only the wolf is a wolf, but is actually a snake? Man, his head comes up with the weirdest shit sometimes, and this is himself he was talking about. 

And that’s not even getting into the weirdness of Cora. Cora, who when she turns up to scowl at Laura (who is smiling! What the fuck!), has the same downturn, the same brown eyes, light brown hair, the same set to her cheeks (so much pudgier, and Older Cora would kill him if she’d ever heard him say that). What a difference seven years makes, because he would absolutely not have connected Older Cora with the Cora that he sees here. She’s a little kid, for Christ’s sake! And if he ever runs into younger himself, oh man, that’s going to be even weirder a trip, he just knows it. 

“Peter, you’re back!” 

Stiles turns to see Caleb and a woman, heavily pregnant, with pitch-black hair and Scott’s abuela’s black eyes on the porch. In Caleb’s arms is a boy, about three years old by Stiles’s best guesstimate, and he has the strange woman’s eyes and floppy brown hair falling over rounded cheeks and over the hand the little boy is using to rub his eye. 

Immediately in his mind’s eye, Stiles flashes back to his dad’s file on the Hale House Fire. Of the eleven who had died in the fire, one had been a woman of Latina descent, and although her face was badly burnt, she still had most of her head of hair left. The same hair that this lady has, only instead of being stringy and stiff, the woman’s hair looked soft and well-cared for, shiny as it tumbles straight down her shoulders. 

That isn’t the most chilling part, though. In stark, clinical letters, in the notes section below her picture, the words had stated in blunt, unfeeling characters: “Deceased eight months pregnant at time of death. Fetus did not survive.” 

It’s then that Stiles gets it. Really gets it. The real impact of what Kate pulls when she burns the Hale House down. 

He steps back to take in the three on the porch and the gaggle coming in. These people at whom he’s looking, the ones who are currently laughing and breathing and being alive, and have no idea what could have happened? All of these people are a part of the Hale pack. These are the people that Kate kills or destroys the lives of in the Hale House fire. And these aren’t even all of the ones in the house when the fire happens. Stiles remembers more faces from the case file than the ones present here, and there were a lot of faces. 

But those pictures are nothing compared to the reality, the living breathingness of the Latina woman as she leans into Caleb, of Cora and Derek shoving at each other with their elbows as Peter offers completely unnecessary commentary and advice for Cora, of Mrs. Hale sighing at them. Or of Laura, her head thrown back, her face piercings flashing with her movements as she eggs Derek on. 

No pictures of dead bodies on the morgue table could have prepared Stiles for this. This is the real impact of what Kate does with the Hale fire. She destroys all of this. 

When he had first thought to come back in the past to change things, sure, he was only thinking of how anything would be better for his dad and Scott. Anything was better, for better and for worse, than what had happened to them, to Stiles, to Lydia, Isaac, Allison, hell, Heather and Tara, everyone he knew who had been impacted by the consequences of Kate’s actions. It was all about his people. 

But standing here amongst people who weren’t alive to him, who wouldn’t be alive if he hadn’t come back, it… it’s overwhelming. The enormity of what he’s doing. Not only is he changing the lives of the people he loves, but he’s also changing other people’s lives, too. 

He can’t stop glancing at Cora, or at Caleb and the Latina woman (his wife?) passing the little boy in between them. He can’t stop wondering how they’d be integrated into Beacon Hills if they had lived in his time. If Cora hadn’t been forced to run, would she be in his classes with him at Beacon Hills High? Would he have gotten glances of the little boy at the elementary school, another one of “those Hales” in town? Who else would be here, if the baby had been born? Would they have been in Beacon Hills, or would they have gone somewhere else? 

So many questions to which he’ll never know the answers, because of Kate. Kate, who takes an innocent family which happens to be made up of werewolves, and tears it apart. 

Intellectually, and also from his own experience of Kate’s actions when Older Peter was on the rampage, Stiles knew that Kate was a monster. But nothing like this. Nothing could have prepared him for realizing just how evil she was – is. 

If she’s not taken down, if he doesn’t succeed, then she’ll take away all of this, the energy, the comfortableness of everyone with each other, the – the family that’s here, together, enjoying each other’s company. They have no idea what happens to them, what will happen to them if Kate gets through. 

Heck, maybe things would be even worse this time. Maybe the whole pack will be murdered, with no one left, not even Derek, or Laura, or Peter, or Cora. Maybe they’re all on the morgue slabs, their faces pale and lifeless. Laura’s laughing face, empty of the dynamic energy it has (if she’s not faced with Stiles, anyway). Derek’s unexpected adorable, wiped clean and hidden under eyelids that won’t open again. The three-year-old never getting to go to first grade, Cora never graduating from middle school. Even Peter, his sly wit gone (although Stiles thinks that wouldn’t be so much of a loss). All of them gone, never to hold a family meeting or to be so relaxed around family, again. 

Imagining that is – well, it’s basically an exercise in masochism. But it could happen. If Kate gets through, and Stiles doesn’t stop her. 

Even worse, Kate apparently enjoyed it, too. Enjoyed putting them to the match, just because they were werewolves. 

God, he feels sick to his stomach, and they haven’t even gotten to the meeting yet.

**End Chapter Five**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand Shit Just Got Real. 
> 
> Once again, Stiles is the only one here who thinks his anything is weird. Stupid unreliable narrator, forcing me to write things I don’t want to. *pouts* 
> 
> Yes, there was a Spongebob movie, no, I didn’t see it, and yes, it came out in November 2004. Thinking back, no wonder everyone in my high school was crazy about Spongebob, the movie was coming out! That explains so much. (And now you know how old I am. Shh, don’t spread it around.)
> 
> Speaking of high school, the Nokia brick was the phone of choice for me, as cell phones were only just becoming the life-affirming objects they are today (hence why I know so much about how to operate one). Blackberries were THE phone to have, complete with stylus (and they were called PAs then) and there were not nearly as many cell phone companies cheating you out of your money. T-Mobile, however.... 
> 
> Scarecrow is a Batman villain, who specializes in manipulating fears and phobias to create mass chaos and apparently speaks in nursery rhymes. Cyclops is a mutant from The X-Men, one of the members of the original team, waaaay back when Stan Lee and Jack Kirby started the comic in 1963 (duuuude, that long ago?). Can you tell a certain author is a Marvel fan? Poor Stiles the DC follower, contaminated by Marvel. (Speaking of which, Brian Michael Bendis, at DC? NOOOOOOO COME BACK BRIAN WHY)
> 
> If you spot any glaring (or not so glaring) mistakes in this, formatting errors and typos and suchlike, please let me know. I was tired enough of fighting with this chapter that I just wanted to post it and be done already, and also to get it to you guys as soon as possible. I'll fix the mistakes and thank you very much. :)


	6. Sixth Step, or, Into the Woods and Through the Trees (1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fact that he's time-traveled whacks Stiles up the head several times, people are idiots, and why is it always the woods?!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news, it’s an update! Bad news, you’ll see for yourself at the end of this chapter! Good news, I’m done with uni! Bad news, I probably have to get a job now! Good news, no job can be possibly as time-ravenous as uni! Bad news, I won’t know exactly how time-ravenous the job actually will be! Yay mixed bag! 
> 
> I’m fiddling around with cleaning up the tags, because otherwise they’re going to be longer than the story itself. Each chapter will continue to have their own warnings, but only the major ones that account for deeply triggering events (such as past unborn child death) will stay up there. 
> 
> **Warnings:** Unreliable Narrator (which I should have added two chapters ago, tbh); made-up werewolf mythology shenanigans; ableism (alternatively: Stiles vs. Misinformation about ADHD); OKAW (Obligatory Kate Argent Warning); time travel shenanigans; author is severely outdated on some pop culture shows; speaking of pop culture shows, so many pop culture references; pop culture references up the wazoo; inter-pack werewolf relations shenanigans; so many shenanigans

The Hales come away from the debriefing with, honestly, not much of a plan. 

All they’ve come up with is to buddy up (even Stiles) at all times, not just on patrol; act natural but keep an eye on anyone or anything suspicious; and to call for help immediately if something happens. 

Like acting natural when there’s danger nearby is totally a thing anyone can do. Suuuure. Nobody’s going to notice a change in behavior at all, nope, nothing to see here, move along, we’re totally not werewolves on high alert, no sirree. Ugh. 

Oh, and Peter is going to keep digging, now that he’s got a few new choices on directions in which to go. (How scent is going to help with that, he has no idea.)

He’d tried to point out the utter hopelessness of this plan, but he was shut down pretty much as soon as (or whenever) he opened his mouth. If not by Kurt, then by Laura, and once when Stiles would have made a snarky remark, by Caleb’s elbow in his ribs. Ow. So fine, he’d got the message, apart from the interrogation, he wasn’t a part of this. Whatever, it’s a shitty plan and they’ll find out for themselves soon enough. 

But this? This is just the last straw. 

“Meditation. That’s your big secret werewolf training thing, meditation?”

“Believe it or not, a wolf’s spark has a lot to do with the spiritual,” Deaton offers mildly. “I don’t mean in the religious sense, but in the sense that there’s a plane of existence next to ours that a wolf is inherently connected to, whether they can sense that connection or not.” 

Unbidden, the image of that white-on-white space where he, Scott, and Allison had gone when they’d sacrificed themselves for their parents comes to mind. Immediately following that is Lydia, her color up, as she tries to explain for the fifth time why Stiles can’t take his phone with him through the ritual, and yeah, he gets that. 

“So you’re saying that I have to learn how to get in touch with my feminine side?” Sarcasm drips from his tongue, hisses holes in the floor a la Alien. 

(Okay, it doesn’t, but he’d like to think it would if it could.) 

“Not as such. More like you’re getting in touch with your ‘wolf side,” Deaton says, straight-faced. 

“I would encourage you not to think of it as a ‘side’,” Mrs. Hale interjects. “These new, new to you, abilities and instincts and ways of thinking are not a different part of you, able to be shoved down and away when you want them to be. 

“Rather, they’re always a part of who you are, it’s just a matter of you learning how to interpret the new information and deal with it in a way that prevents you from losing control. Especially at the wrong moment.” 

“Huh. I never thought of it that way before,” Stiles comments. “Sure would have helped Scottie when he was first bitten. But look – what?” 

Mrs. Hale and Deaton stop glancing at each other. “What?” 

“What was that? That look?” 

“You don’t miss anything, do you?” Mrs. Hale says, wry.

“Nope.” Stiles pops the “p”. “To the annoyance of my dad and my teachers.” 

“I’m sure.” Mrs. Hale’s mouth purses. “You mention Scott, was it, and your dad often, but not many of your other pack members. To the point I’m not sure you had any other pack besides those two.” 

Uhh, that was definitely not what he was expecting. “The whole pack thing was, uh, complicated. Stupidly complicated.” Under. Statement. “There was a lot of drama,” he offers lamely. 

“Would it be accurate to say it was a young pack, just newly formed?” 

“Ye-ahh…” Stiles says slowly, drawing it out. “Why are you asking?” 

Mrs. Hale nods thoughtfully. “It explains a lot, like the holes in your knowledge about pack. Seems like history lessons are in store for you, as well as meditation.” 

Oh, right, that’s what he was going to say. “Dude, don’t even try it with the meditation thing. That’s just not going to go well.” 

Mrs. Hale’s eyebrows go up. “Why not?” 

“Have you met me?” Stiles demands. “Me and sitting still are not friends. We are mortal enemies, that’s how much we’re not friends. Me, do meditation?” He snorts. “Yeah, good luck with that.” 

“Really? I had thought that you were unable to sit still because of the repressed shift,” Mrs. Hale says, fascinated. “But this is normal for you?” 

Stiles has to take a breath for himself. No matter how many times he’s given this speech, it never gets any less annoying to have to give it. He really wishes, not for the first time, that knowledge about ADHD was more commonly widespread, so he wouldn’t have to do this every time. 

“Yeah,” he says, once he’s psyched himself up appropriately, “I have this thing called ADHD, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. It’s where I can’t focus on anything for more than, like, five minutes at a time (that’s the attention deficit part), and I move, like, constantly (that’s the hyperactivity part). 

“I ramble and get stuck on one thing for hours and pretty much a whole bunch of other shi- stuff,” he corrects himself at Mrs. Hale’s expression. “You can look it up online if you want, but the basic gist is, yes, this is completely normal for me, yes, there’s a treatment for it, no, I haven’t been taking it because it’s back home and the prescription’s probably expired by now.”

Hell, it hasn’t even been written yet. Not his current prescription anyway. Wait, when did he get diagnosed again? Around eight or nine, and even then it took them a while to get him on Adderall. The doctors had wanted to try a bunch of other things, including meditation, before they put him on it, due to the side effects it could have on his heart rate. 

Needless to say, none of the other stuff had worked, or hadn’t worked to a degree with which the docs were satisfied, so on Adderall it was.

“That’s strange,” Mrs. Hale muses. “You haven’t seemed overly distracted to me. You’ve been able to focus on Kate for quite a while—”

Ugh. Every time. “Seriously? Why does everyone not believe me when I tell them? Is there something about my face that automatically says, ‘don’t believe me’? I’ve been living with my ADHD for years, I know my own symptoms better than you do.” 

He glares at Mrs. Hale, who looks taken aback. “Of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to – I only meant that the Bite should have….” 

She shuts her mouth, but it’s too late. Stiles’s brain has already caught onto the implications. 

“You’re saying that the Bite should have made me normal,” Stiles says slowly. “If it weren’t being repressed, anyway.” Even as he says it, he remembers Erica and her epilepsy, and how it was gone once Derek gave her the Bite. 

“That depends on what you mean by ‘normal’,” Mrs. Hale warns. 

“I mean I wouldn’t be a hyperactive attention spaz,” Stiles retorts. “I wouldn’t have to have special accommodations in the classroom, wouldn’t have to take my tests in a separate room with extended time just to make sure that I actually got to everything. I wouldn’t need someone there to remind me to stay on task instead of wondering about the cracks in the plaster and whether I should be worried about structural integrity. Or—”

“All right, all right, I get what you mean,” Mrs. Hale raises her hands. “In your case, yes, the Bite should have made it so you didn’t need all of that. That being said, the Bite is a gift, not a cure. It has its limits.” 

“Limits such as what?” Stiles inquires. 

“Well, pain, for one. Enough pain and the Bite gets overwhelmed, essentially turning out human again. When that happens, then whatever underlying conditions a person has or had before the Bite may re-emerge exactly as if they were never bitten.” 

“Like Erica and her epilepsy,” he remembers. “Or Scott, that one time when he needed his inhaler but didn’t have one because he wasn’t used to needing one anymore.” 

“Exactly,” Mrs. Hale nods. “So take care in exactly how much you view the Bite as a cure.” 

Stiles nods, fully chastised. 

“That being said,” Deaton pipes up, “that makes it even more important to find a way to open your connection to your lycanthropy. I, too, thought your restlessness was a symptom of your repressed shift, but seeing as it’s not, that means that without a release, the energy and psychological effects will continue to build up.” 

“What about psychological effects?” Stiles asks sharply. 

“Did you not hear me when I said a wolf’s spark as a lot to do with the spiritual?” Deaton is almost annoyed. 

“Well, yeah, but that’s spiritual, not psychological,” Stiles retorts.

“On the contrary,” Deaton counters, “the spiritual, psychological, and the physical all have a great deal to do with each other. Any change in one impacts the other two in countless ways, and vice versa. For werewolves, that impact is heightened due to their deepened relationship with the spiritual.” 

Oh, boy. He can feel his head tightening, signaling the onset of a headache. Honestly, he’s surprised he hasn’t developed one yet. Between Kate and Peter, the Hale’s idiotic planning skills, and this- yeah, it’s been a long day. And it isn’t even dinnertime yet. 

Mrs. Hale must notice, for she says, “In summary, we need to find you a way to release your shift. Since you’re not convinced that meditation will work,” Stiles rolls his eyes- he knows it won’t work, why can no one take his word for it, jeez, “we’ll work on finding something else. You, too, Stiles. Think of some ways besides ‘sitting still’ that you think will help.” 

“There are other forms of meditation besides traditional meditation,” Deaton offers. “I’d have to look them up as I don’t know them off the top of my head, but I’m sure one of them could work, if only you’d give it a try.” 

“I just told you—” Stiles begins. 

“Try them,” Mrs. Hale cuts in, not unkindly. “It won’t do you any harm, and you never know, one of them could work out.” 

Aaaaand his burgeoning headache just bloomed into a full-on throb. Stiles massages his forehead, but it’s no good, he’s too fed up with the adults thinking they know better. Even with the expert on his own body’s reactions _right in front of them_. “Whatever,” he says, five hundred percent done. “Are we good here? Can I go now?” 

“Actually, there’s something else we need to talk about,” Mrs. Hale says, giving Stiles a stern look. “And that’s where you are going to be for the full moon, which is in two days.” 

“Whoa, what? Two days?!” Stiles flails. 

“You’re right, it is in two days,” Deaton says at the same time. “I’ve been so busy, I lost track of time.” 

“I only remembered because I looked at the calendar in the kitchen,” Mrs. Hale returns. “With everything that’s been going on--”

“Two days isn’t enough time to learn to control the shift,” Stiles butts in. “Do you expect me to come up with an anchor in that time?” 

Mrs. Hale gives him another Look. “No, which is why we’re discussing finding you a safe room, where you won’t be able to run rampant and bring Kate down on our heads.” 

“...Oh. Right. Uh, good thinking.” 

“I thought so,” Mrs. Hale agrees dryly. 

“What about your safe rooms, Talia? I would think that would be the best place for him,” Deaton asks. 

“We’ll be using those,” Mrs. Hale says. “It’s not safe for the normal pack run with the hunters around. They’d undoubtedly be looking for us there.” 

Stiles perks up. “Uh, are you talking about the basement with the tunnel you guys were holding me in?” 

Mrs. Hale turns to look at him. “Ye-es...” 

“Uh, that? Not such a good idea. Really not a good idea. Like, really, stupidly not a good idea.” 

Mrs. Hale cocks her head. “Why not?” 

“The hunters—” Stiles jerks in a slight breath. The ball in his throat is back, but more as a warning sign rather than full-on choking him. 

“Stiles?” 

“Uh...” He thinks fast. “They’re pretty good at finding hiding places,” he manages. “And doing pretty bad things to anybody they find in there.” 

Mrs. Hale’s face softens. “It’s all right, Stiles,” she says, one of her hands twitching upwards. It falls again by her side before Stiles can get an idea of what she meant to do, “But we’ve been using our safe rooms for decades without harm. We’ll be fine.” 

“But—” Stiles starts. 

“We’ll be fine,” Mrs. Hale repeats. “Leave protecting my pack to me.” 

Oh, my God. Really? _Really?_ He must have a face no one can take seriously, because this is ridiculous. He’s obviously trying to warn about a serious danger, and he gets brushed off because the Hales’ hiding place has worked “for decades.” That just means it’s about time it stopped working, duh! 

Oh, God, he gives up. He really does. He’ll just have to do what he does- did- with Scott, go along for the ride and try to do damage control (as much as can a pasty, white, a little over one hundred and fifty pounds ~~human~~ Alpha werewolf who can’t shift, anyway). If and when they survive this, then he can and will absolutely say _I told you so,_ loudly and with extreme prejudice. Extreme. Prejudice. 

“Werewolves!” he says sotto voice. “Can’t be bothered to listen when they know everything there to know about anything! Even when there’s someone right in front of them telling them otherwise! But noo, it’s all ‘we can handle this, Stiles, go away, Stiles, we know better than you, Stiles.’ 

“Excuse you, but who’s the research guru of the pack? That’s right, me. I’m the one who figured out Scott was a wolf, I’m the one who found out he needed an anchor to control the shift, I’m the one who researched what all to do with the kanima, hell, I took the fucking kanima out with my own damn Jeep! And then Lydia transformed him back with the power of _true love_ ,” nope, that wasn’t bitterness in his voice, not at all. Bitterness, what bitterness? “but it was me who got us to the point! And then I held up the damn ceiling with a fucking aluminum bat, if I hadn’t gotten there in time—”

He fists his hands on the table and hangs his head. He is so, so tired of people dismissing him like he doesn’t matter. Sure, he’s a clumsy attention deficit spaz, but he’s freaking smart and has shit to say that’s just as valid as anybody else’s shit, okay, but even more because his is backed up by evidence, hours of poring over useless (and mentally scarring) shit for the diamonds in the rough, of popping extra Adderall pills to stay awake, and then bringing together the disparate bits into a solid plan, with jobs for everybody. 

So what if those plans didn’t normally survive first contact with the enemy? That isn’t the point. The point is that he works his butt off, for very little reward (except mostly everybody staying alive), and about as much thanks.  
His entire life is like this. Nobody, not even his dad, has taken him seriously, and normally it wouldn’t bother him this much – that’s not to say it never bothered him, because it did, all the time, but he was able to laugh it off – but that was before lives were on the line and he seemed to be the only one who saw the danger coming at them. 

Feeling about as close to one hundred years old as he can get, Stiles lifts his head. He’s about to rejoin the conversation – they’re arguing about using Deaton’s basement now – but then he catches a glimpse of something behind Mrs. Hale, and everything else flies out of his head. 

There’s a table on the far wall, about normal size for one of Deaton’s exam tables, but it’s tucked out of the way, like it’s been forgotten about. It’s also freaking shimmering, like some sort of mirage, only it doesn’t disappear as he gets closer. Instead, the shimmering somehow – he can’t say it any other way – solidifies, until he can see not only the table, but on top of it: a mess of candles, a big ungainly mirror reflecting the room, and a series of five jars. 

Each one has a label with a drawing of a particular plant on it. Stiles has no idea what any of these plants are, except for one which has to be mountain ash. He’s about ninety percent confident about identifying it after using it that one time and having done so much research on it after the fact. 

He thinks another one might be mistletoe, but he can’t be sure. Other than researching it to reveal the Darach’s true face, he wasn’t too interested in it. Wasn’t (and still isn’t) too interested in plants in general, but especially after his dad’s death, except as they pertained to the ritual. 

(Even now, he still doesn’t know what that green powder was. It had some ridiculous Latin name that Lydia refused to translate, only told him it was safe to handle and for him not to worry about it.) 

(Stiles was very reassured. Not.) 

Needless to say, he knows fuck all what the other three plants are, only that they appear to be dried specimens within the jar (or ash in the case of the mountain ash). One jar has red stalks and pointy leaves, another has green stalks and small, oblong yellow berries, and the third contains a stack of light-colored, brittle looking twigs in it, like the kind you’d use for kindling. 

“Stiles? What are you doing over here?” 

He blinks, shakes his head. “Huh, wha? Mrs. Hale?” 

Weird, he feels like he’s just woken up, or, no, like Dad distracted him from something he was concentrating intently on: it takes a few seconds for his brain to get in order, and then he’s blinking up at Mrs. Hale, who looks concerned. 

“Are you all right?” 

“Uh… yeah, I’m totally fine, dude. I was just looking at these jars—” He looks back down at the table. “Whoa! Where’d they go?” 

“Where did what go?” Deaton asks, coming up on Stiles’s other side. 

“The jars.” Stiles gestures at the now empty table, clear of anything except the lone fat red candle on the edge. “I swear I was just looking at some jars a few seconds ago.” 

“Jars?” Deaton’s eyebrows wing up. “What kind of jars?” 

“Like, mason jars. They had some weird plant specimens inside.” 

Deaton’s expression shows nothing other than curiosity, but Stiles has the feeling – well, when doesn’t he? – that the good doc knows more than he’s letting on. “Pretty sure one of them was mountain ash,” he adds. 

_There_ goes Deaton’s expression. “You know mountain ash?” 

“Yeah, it’s dark and ashy, you use it to trap supernatural creatures within?” Stiles says breezily. 

“Or to keep them out,” Deaton is studying Stiles with that expression, the one that makes him feel like he’s a bug under a magnifying glass. “Stiles, has anyone given you any type of training, as in seeing past illusions, or…?” 

“Uhh, D – someone! someone told me how to use the mountain ash,” Stiles offers. 

Deaton frowns. “No, that wouldn’t have been enough. Also, you were able to handle mountain ash? As you are now?” 

“No?” Stiles answer-asks. “I mean, like, he taught me before whatever happened to me happened, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

“Hm.” Deaton frowns harder. “Interesting.” 

“Why do you ask, doc?” 

“I ask because technically only other emissaries should be able to see these jars. Even then, with the way it’s set up, they should have seen mere impressions, shadows where the jars were, until they broke through the structure or I called their attention to them. You really haven’t gotten any training?”

“Not unless looking up plants on Wikipedia counts,” Stiles points out. “I’m gonna take a wild guess and go by the look on your face that it doesn’t.” 

“No, it doesn’t,” Deaton confirms. “Interesting, I will have to do some research into how this can be possible.” 

“Don’t forget about finding Stiles a safe room,” Mrs. Hale breaks in. “Let’s not get too far into that research that you forget.” 

“Oh, yeah, totally not something I’d want to forget, being locked up like a prisoner in two days,” Stiles gripes. “That’s not hanging over my head like the Sword of Damocles at all. Which, by the way, is even creepier when you know that Damocles was a werewolf and the sword was an Argent’s.” 

Mrs. Hale closes her mouth. Opens it again. “And here I thought you didn’t know anything about pack culture. Where did you learn that?” 

Stiles blinks past Peter’s – Older Peter’s – smirk, shrugs. “Lots of places you can find things if you know what you’re looking for. Only trouble is knowing past the bullshit. Uh, baloney sandwich, I mean.” 

Mrs. Hale shakes her head. “You, Stiles Vrilinski, are just full of surprises, aren’t you?” she remarks. “Anytime I think I have you figured out, you pull something else off and surprise me. Keeps me on my toes.” 

“Yay?” Stiles cheers weakly, complete with not-so-enthusiastic jazz hands. Mrs. Hale chuckles, but Deaton looks concerned. Oh, boy, he doesn’t like that look. He’d better prepare himself for some not-so-passive interrogation later, based on that look. 

Joy. 

He’s very happy to follow Mrs. Hale in leaving Deaton to his day job, even if it means that he’s summarily accosted into accompanying Mrs. Hale on a shopping trip. Even the hell that is strolling down Main with a metric fuckton of shopping bags in his arms is better than Deaton starting in on him. 

Worse, this time he doesn’t have the defense of knowing what it is he’s done to earn the Deaton Glower of Disapproval, so he can’t weasel out of whatever it is. Heck, he can’t even rely on Scott’s puppy dog eyes to get him off relatively scott-free (hah, Scott-free), which means he has only himself to rely on, and he’s working at a distinct disadvantage. 

Yeah, shopping with Mrs. Hale is much better. Maybe, by the time he comes back, Deaton will have forgotten about the whole thing, or distracted by something else more pressing, and won’t bring it up. Hey, a guy can hope, right? Right? 

Right. 

(Even if he knows full well it won’t happen, hope is practically the last thing he has left to hold on to, besides hanging on for Kate’s death. Grab at everything you can, his mom used to tell him, back when Life was Beautiful and Nothing Hurt, because you never know when next it’ll pop up. Well, he’s grabbing, and he’s going to hold onto hope for as long as he can. When going through hell, keep going.) 

:-:-:-:

The next day is not really any better. 

At the moment, Stiles has been in the Beacon Hills Public Library for hours already, hunched over the library’s ancient computer, surrounded by books, and tearing his hair out over the total lack of information in them. Twenty books he’s ripped off the shelves, hundreds of sites on the library’s dial-up internet he’s scrolled through, and not one of them has anything on werewolves getting stuck in human form. 

Instead, they’re all about getting stuck in wolf form, porn (again with the porn, jeesh), graphic fanfiction (which is even more graphic than some of the porn videos he’s watched), or selkies getting stuck in man form because someone stole their pelt. The last is interesting, but still not what Stiles is looking for, which is man not able to go into creature. [and] Everything else is just. Utter. Bullshit. Very frustrating, and Stiles is about to burst with the lack of anything useful or relevant.

Then someone leans on the edge of his table and makes his day so much worse. 

“Well, I can’t say I’ve seen a young man your age surrounded by this many books since Caleb was writing his thesis,” says a drawling voice Stiles knows all too well. “And even then, he was considerably older than you are now.” 

Stiles is instantly stock-straight in his chair and glaring daggers. “What do you want, Peter?” He doesn’t need to be told that his eyes are probably red right now, but right now he couldn’t give a flying rat’s ass. 

Peter frowns at him. “What, no greeting? No ‘hello, how are you?’ And I thought Derek lacked manners.” And yet he has the fucking gall to seat himself across from Stiles and picking up one of Stiles’s books, the one about holistic aides for memory and longevity, without asking. Fucker. 

“Don’t touch that,” Stiles snaps, snatching the book out of Peter’s hands. “Just tell me what you want and leave, okay?” 

Peter sits back in his chair, folds his hands across his chest. “Why do you hate me, Stiles?” 

Stiles stiffens, his hands clamping down on the book. “What, hate? I don’t hate you.”

Even he can tell the lie in that. He doesn’t need the skip of his heartbeat to tell him that. Or Peter’s look of disdain. 

“Why do you want to know?” he asks instead, placing the book carefully with its fellows. It’s not like the book ever did anything to him. 

“Because I’m curious,” Peter says simply. “You’ve never met me before, yet here you are, acting like I’m about to kill you.” 

Stiles can’t contain the flinch at Peter’s poor, poor choice of words. “Dude, blunt much?” 

Peter hums. “It’s better that I’m blunt. After all, hunters thrive on division of their prey. If we are to take them down, we must be able to rely on each other. And, despite what my sister thinks, coddling you is not the answer.”

“I’ll never trust you,” Stiles says before he can think about it. Shit. Now he’s given Peter an opening, and Peter never turns down poking at the chink in anybody’s armor. Especially when it’s handed to him on a fucking silver platter. 

Sure enough, Peter puts his forearms on the table and leans forward, his eyes gleaming. “Why not?” he inquires, looking so earnest Stiles can’t stand it. 

_Because you’re psychotic,_ Stiles almost says. Surprisingly, his seldom-appearing brain-to-mouth filter kicks in then, saving him from giving any more pounds of his flesh away. Taking a deep breath, he bites down on the ugly words clawing its way out of him and turns away from Peter. 

Instead he starts cleaning up the table. His concentration’s totally shot now, there’s no way he’s going to be able to concentrate on old legends about werewolves stuck in one form or another. They aren’t useful anyway. 

Even in the past, Peter can’t seem to take the fucking hint and shut up. “You know, Stiles, the Hales have an impressive library. Whatever you are looking for…you may be able to find it there.” 

Biting his cheek against the rage that rises up at Peter’s presumption, Stiles says nothing. He logs out of the computer and leaves the books in three towering piles for the librarian to put away. Knowing Peter, he probably has the name of every single book in each pile for later speculation, so there’s no point in trying to hide them.

Of course, of course Peter follows him when he heads for the door. Stiles glares at him to back the hell off and is more than moderately surprised when it works, Peter immediately taking a giant step back. He seems about as shocked as Stiles is when it happens, and Stiles would totally love to think about that for a second, run over all the implications of what just happened. 

Except that he’s just spotted Derek walking by, and who should he be walking with but Kate Argent. 

Aaaaaaand he’s got a desperately uncomfortable look on his face that reminds Stiles way too much of cornered prey screaming for help. 

Fuck. And just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse. 

“Peter, stay in here,” Stiles says shortly. Peter’s looking towards Derek and Kate, too, and Stiles can see the gears grinding as he pairs Stiles’s reaction with what he’s seeing. “Peter!”

“That’s Kate Argent, isn’t it.” Peter’s eyes have started glowing blue, and his claws are lengthening. Stiles flaps at him furiously to get him to stop, but it’s no good. Of course it’s no good, he thinks as Peter starts growling and heading for the door, he’s a werewolf, his pack’s in danger, flapping won’t do anything. So he does the first thing he can think of to do, and that is to move directly in front of Peter, blocking the way. 

Stiles never pretended that he has a lot of self-preservation instincts. 

“Get out of the way,” Peter says, his voice a rumble that Stiles is seriously surprised no one else in the library can hear. Or Derek for that matter, who’s supposed to have super hearing, stupid, stupid, stupid! Once they get out of this terrible, horrible, no good, very bad situation, Stiles is really going to have to sit Derek down and yell at him thoroughly for being so goddamned stupid. But first he’s got to get him away from Kate, and in order to do that, he needs to get Peter to stand down. 

“No,” he says as calmly as he can, which is probably not very calmly, but hey, fake it ‘til you make it, right? Drawing himself up to his full height, an inch or so taller than Peter, he really, really hopes this works. 

“Get. Out. Of. The way.” Peter hasn’t shifted any more than he already has, but that’s no comfort. If anybody happens across them, coming out from behind the stacks or hell, just opening the door, shit is gonna go down in bad, bad ways. 

“Look at what you’re doing, Peter,” Stiles says, trying desperately to keep his tone even. There’s nothing he can do for his heartbeat, which even he can feel galloping away, but maybe he can use it. “You’re shifting in the middle of the library, with hunters after your pack, and one of them right next to her. Do you want Kate Argent to look up and see you? What happens to Derek then, huh? It’s not like you two don’t look alike,” he adds at a burst of inspiration. 

Peter’s still growling, but his features are distinctly human, and his eyes aren’t flashing blue so much anymore. Nonetheless, the air around him vibrates with the need to rescue Derek; Stiles feels like his whole body is shuddering from Peter’s proximity. 

“Look, I get it, you want to gut Kate and take Derek away,” Stiles continues, lowering his voice out of necessity. He doesn’t dare to look away from Peter to sneak a glance around the rest of the library, can only hope there’s nobody nearby. 

“But you can’t do that as you are now. You’ve gotta keep the wolfliness down,” he barely contains his gulp when Peter’s eyes switch over to him, human intelligence emerging from their fading blue. “That’s it, dude, just wrap up that wolf and then we can go get Derek and strangle him for his stupidity. All right?” 

“Don’t talk about my nephew like that,” Peter rumbles. Stiles is suffused by the urge to huff in exasperation – really, that’s what he gets out of that? _Don’t talk about my nephew like that_ , really? – but if he breaks the staring contest, then he loses. If he loses, then the entire Hale pack loses, too. 

Suddenly Peter flashes forward, snaps his teeth in Stiles’s face. Stiles flinches, startles backwards. _Oh shit_ , is the first thought that comes to his mind. _Fuck_ is the second one, a split-second later. He scrambles to get back into place, but Peter has already taken the mile from the inch and is bounding past Stiles out the door. 

“Peter!” he shouts, pushing through the door after him. Peter is nearly a blur as he moves towards the end of the block, where Derek and Crazy Aunt Kate are preparing to cross the street. “Peter, stop!” 

Two things happen then. One, Peter stops in the middle of the sidewalk, and two, both Derek and Kate’s heads snap around towards them, pausing in the act of taking a step off the curb. Shit. Sprinting towards Peter, Stiles arrives just as Derek gets through saying, “—you doing here?” 

Unfortunately, Stiles is too out of breath from the sprint to say anything. It also means he can’t stop Peter from saying smoothly, “Looking for you. Did you forget I was supposed to pick you up from practice?” 

“Uh,” Derek casts a nervous look at Kate, who’s looking on with a sly smile. “Yeah, um, I… was going to meet up with Stiles,” Stiles tries to give him a look like _what the fuck??_ but Derek glances at Kate again, then away, “‘cause he… you now… texted me, and wanted to… uh…” 

“Talk to him about a project we have to do at school together,” Stiles jumps in, “about… mythology and how it’s influenced history and all that B.S. High school, am I right?” 

He and Derek exchange eye rolls. High school, ugh. 

“When Stiles here told me he didn’t know where you were, I got worried,” Peter goes on. Stiles tries to look like that’s totally what happened, but both Derek and Kate only glance at him. “But now I see the reason for your…absence.” 

Derek’s cheeks flame brightly while Kate laughs delightedly. “Oh, no,” Kate says, tweaking one of Derek’s cheeks, “you shouldn’t blame Derek. I asked him for directions, and being the gentleman that he is, he offered to show me. Isn’t he adorable?” 

“I – uh—” That’s all Derek gets out before Peter’s hand clamps down on his shoulder. Judging from the wince Derek gets, Peter’s grasp is bruising. Good. 

“That’s Derek, always wanting to help,” Peter says pleasantly to Kate. “But now I’ve got to take him home. His parents are probably wondering where we are.” 

“Oh, no,” Kate tuts playfully, shaking a finger at Derek. “We can’t have that, can we? Run back to your mom and dad, cutie. We can get to know each other better next time.” She winks. 

Derek barely turns his face away before the look of panic crosses it. Stiles can’t blame him, there’s no way a “next time” would go well. Peter’s expression barely flickers, but his knuckles on Derek’s shoulder are white as he demurs with, “You never know, Beacon Hills is small enough, it may yet happen,” and throws in a small laugh to match Kate’s. (Stiles shudders. He can’t even imagine having to make small talk with a hunter, and he’s not even a werewolf. His. _Life._ )

“Well, we do need to get going,” Peter says, affecting a sincere enough tone of regret. 

“Oh, sure, don’t let me keep you,” Kate says coyly. “Bye, cuties, and good luck on your project!” She waves long fingers at the both of them. 

Urgh, yuck, yuck, yuck. Can’t she leave well enough alone? Stiles pulls Derek away and down the sidewalk, keeping an eye out over his shoulder while Peter smoothly extends his stride to join them. Kate wriggles her fingers again – yuck, seriously, what a pervert – and he ducks around to face front. 

Once he feels like they’re far enough away (although no distance will feel safe until the wicked bitch is dead or out of Beacon Hills), he hisses:

“Dude, what the fuck?” Stiles hisses as soon as they’ve gotten far enough away. 

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t get away from her!” Derek throws up his arms. “She asked for directions and I answered her before I noticed who she was, and then I was stuck!” 

“You couldn’t have said you didn’t know?” 

“I panicked, okay!” Derek presses fingers to his forehead. “Next thing I know, she’s asking me to show her where the building was, and then you and Peter are there, and oh, my God, _she could have killed me_!” 

Derek stops dead in the middle of the sidewalk, his face chalk-white. 

“Keep moving!” Stiles glances over his shoulder again, but Kate’s not in sight anymore, not that that’s any indicator, jeez. Hunters are just as bad as werewolves about lurking in the shadows and springing out at you when least you expect it. 

(Makes him wonder: which came first, the hunters loitering or the werewolves? Great, now he’s imagining a lurking arms race, with each measuring their survival but how much they can Batman their way through life with encounters with each other, and _dude_ , his brain.)

They’re going to have to tell Mrs. Hale about this right away. Kate unerringly picking out Derek out of the rest of Beacon Hills to play with spells nothing but “capital T, rhymes with P, and stands for pool” trouble, and they’ve got enough trouble as it is without Kate adding her statutory rapist fingers into the pie. Not least of which is because that’s the way she gets to the Hale pack in the first place, through Derek, but Stiles can still remember the moment when he realized: oh, shit, _this_ is why Older Derek is so messed up about his family. That was when he’d figured out how exactly Kate and Derek knew each other, and oh, my _God_. Worst, feeling, ever. 

(That reminds him: he feels _awful_ about that time he yelled at Older Derek in the hospital about mass-murdering girlfriends. Stiles will admit that he hasn’t got the finest control over his brain-to-mouth filter (who is he kidding, he has no control over his mouth whatsoever), but that? That was just plain insensitive, and he regrets that he never apologized to Older Derek for it, even as the dude had appeared to take it in stride. Of course, they were fighting for their lives at the time, so maybe Older Derek didn’t register it, or he forgot, but Stiles can’t. It’ll burn a hole in the pocket of his Pants of Shame for the rest of his life.) 

Anyway, the point is: Derek’s in trouble, and they’re going to need to find some way to get him out of it stat. Stiles would almost say this is like when Scott and Allison were first starting out all over again, with Scott willfully oblivious to the danger literally across the dinner table from him. A few important differences: Derek knows who the real enemy is here, and is not in love with one of them. 

Also, Derek is _not_ Scott, bullheaded and ridiculous about male authority, and that gives Stiles hope that everything will end up differently. 

:-:-:-:

As is to be expected, Mrs. Hale hits the roof. 

Oh, not in like any obvious way. She doesn’t turn full-on Alpha red eyes or anything, in fact, she doesn’t even seem to really react at all. But it’s through plenty of traumatic experiences with Older Derek that Stiles sees it – sees the way her eyes widen, her shoulders stiffen, and her eyebrows arch, that she is freaked. out. Now she knows how Stiles’s been feeling for the past week, but worse, because nobody is taking the threat of Kate seriously, and he feels like he’s been screaming at a brick wall over and over for the people on the other side to hear while they’re playing music or something. Ugh.

Stiles’s vindication doesn’t last long. 

"She did what?" 

"Hey, hey, quiet down, you're gonna wake Juanito here," Caleb glares. 

"Oops, sorry, dude." Stiles glances at the lump of tiny human all but burrowed into Caleb's neck. Juan (who's Inez's son and Caleb's stepson, but who calls Caleb "Papa" with such sweet and devilish enthusiasm it's clear he doesn't know the difference) doesn't seem like he twitched even a little bit, but Stiles keeps his voice to a whisper nonetheless. "But dude, seriously, Mrs. Hale literally lectured Derek for two hours?"

"Yup," Caleb confirms. "Worse, she let Derek explain himself first. Usually that makes the lecture worse, as then she gets a good idea of how to frame it so that you really feel bad." 

"Speaking from personal experience, much?" 

"Oh, yeah," Caleb winces. "Doesn't help that Derek's the most sensitive to the lectures of the pack. He's the goody-two-shoes of the pack," he explains for Stiles's benefit, "he almost never gets in trouble. So he isn't on the opposite end of Talia's disappointment often, as opposed to Laura or Peter, who get lectures every other day, it seems like." 

Ergh, Peter getting a lecture like he's twelve years old or something, that's not a complete mind-fuck or anything. Stiles shakes his head vigorously as if he can get the image out that way (it doesn't work), decides to move the topic on instead. "what else did she do?"

"Now that's something else." Caleb leans in conspiratorially, prompting Stiles to do the same. “Not only did he get the two-hour lecture, which is reserved for special occasions, but now he has to come straight home from school once it’s over. No basketball practices, no hanging out with his friends, no getting rides from someone who’s not Pack, straight home. He’s allowed visits at the house from his friends, but only if they all do their homework and don’t goof off playing video games or watch TV. Or use the computer.” 

“Dude, that’s ridonkulous,” Stiles protests. “That’s, like, the whole point of having friends over, so you _can_ goof off and shit.” 

Caleb tilts his head, hefts Juan's weight in his arms. "Which is why Derek is so upset, he's reduced to sulking in his room and watching as many episodes of The O.C. as possible before he won't be able to watch it anymore. It comes on right after he comes home from basketball practice," he adds, seeing Stiles's confusion, "but since he's not allowed to watch TV until he gets his homework done—"

"He might not get to see it?" Stiles guesses to Caleb's nod. "Dude, _super_ harsh."

Caleb does that head tilt thing again, which Stiles realizes is a shrug as best as he can do with Juan in his arms. 

"It is," Stiles insists. "At least when my dad grounded me, he only took away my Xbox and my phone. He'd leave me the use of my laptop." To do homework. With him in the room. 

Caleb smirks. Oh, right. Werewolf, he probably heard Stiles's heart skip over the lie of omission or something stupid like that. Ugh. “Derek would agree with you. Even Laura is impressed: she said that she’s ‘had some bad punishments, but Derek’s takes the rabbit, fur, bones, and all.’”

“‘It takes the rabbit, fur, bones and all’?” Stiles repeats incredulously, grinning. 

Caleb snorts. “Dude, please. Like you don’t have any weird phrases in your family.” 

Stiles feels his grin freeze. “Nope, all our phrases were legit,” he gets out, hoping his heartbeat or his scent, _whatever_ , doesn’t give him away. The tilt of Caleb’s head tells him he’s failed. Looking away from his curious gaze, Stiles notices that they’re almost to a playground.

“Wow, this brings back some memories,” Stiles remarks. The brightly-colored play sets look at odds with the tall chain-link fence surrounding it. 

“Yeah, Juan loves this place,” Caleb says absently, still studying him. “We usually stop here on our way back from kindergarten.” 

“Usually? You’re not going to today?” 

Caleb winces. “Iñez would tear my balls off if I thought about doing that with the hunters around. It’s especially bad since Derek got caught with one. Normally she can keep her worry levels down, but there’s been no arguing with her since.” 

Stiles goes to point out that Iñez’s worry is totally justified when his gaze snags on two of the kids on the slide. His eyes grow wide, his breath shortens, and his brain goes totally blank, void of even the usual _what the fuck_ a situation like this would have gotten. 

On the slide, ten-year-old Scott laughs as ten-year-old Stiles flails madly on his way down. Younger Stiles shoots out the end of the slide and rolls head over heels, landing in a heap on the woodchips. Shaking his ear-length hair wildly, Younger Stiles picks himself up, brushes the woodchips off his clothes, and then yells at Younger Scott to come down. 

In front of the fence, seventeen-year-old Stiles is still gaping unattractively, but somehow without his conscious input he’s curled his fingers into the chain link fence and is clinging for dear life. He vaguely remembers this, daring Scott to do better on the landing and then devising a point system to judge each landing. 

It feels so unreal to be watching this from the outside, though. Jesus, was he really this small? Was Scott really this small? God, life had seemed so much simpler then, the only thing Stiles had to worry about was whether Jackson was going to kick over his epic Bionicle action figure setup. Neither he nor Scott had any notion of werewolves, crazy hunters, kanima, Darachs, or Alpha packs. To them, the only things important were catching all the Pokémon, getting all the Yu-gi-Oh! trading cards, and wheedling their respective parent to let them go to summer camp. 

Something catches within Stiles's chest then, making it hard for him to breathe. 

“Stiles,” Caleb says from very far away. “ _Stiles_.”

“Huh, what?” Stiles looks up at Caleb long enough to register the concern on his face. Then he looks back at the younger versions of him and his best friend, unable to tear himself away. 

“Are…you okay?” Caleb comes up next to him, hovering just outside of his personal space. 

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes as ten-year-old Scott dumps a bunch of woodchips down ten-year-old Stiles’s shirt. “Yeah, why?” 

“It’s just, you’ve been staring at those two kids for a while, and if you don’t quit, someone’s gonna think you’re creepy and call the cops on you. Hell, I’m thinking you’re creepy right now, and I know you.” 

“ _You_ think I’m creepy?” Stiles looks away at Caleb then, who, shit, looks honest-to-goodness worried. “You’re a wol – you like to sneak up on people and scare the living crap out of them and you’re calling me creepy? You need to get your brain checked.” 

Caleb’s grin is reflexive, but gains strength when Stiles returns it. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he teases. “I leave that to Laura and the rest of the kids.” 

“Oh, please, like you don’t do the same thing,” Stiles jabs a finger in Caleb’s face. He watches as Caleb looks at the finger, then at him, Unimpressed Bitch Face in effect. Then a movement has him turning, yanking his finger back just before Juan can snap his teeth around it. “Holy crap! Did you see that, I almost lost my finger!” 

Caleb smirks even as he bounces Juan on his hip. “You know what we say about biting, _mijo_ ,” he says totally-not-sternly-at-all. “What do we say when we bite?” 

Juan, who’s still half-asleep, still manages a halfway-decent pout that, Stiles isn’t gonna lie, makes him want to ruffle the kid’s hair. If, you know, he really wanted to lose his finger. Caleb is unaffected; he levels Juan with a Look. Pouting some more, Juan eventually gets out, “S’rry,” and buries his head back into Caleb’s neck.

“Stiles?” Caleb asks. 

“Oh, uh, apology accepted, little dude,” Stiles shrugs. “Still, I did almost lose my finger. And that’s not creepy?” 

Caleb rolls his eyes. “Come on, we gotta get going or we’ll be late.”

“Ugh, really?” Stiles follows after Caleb in fits and starts, looking over his shoulder at ten-year-olds Stiles and Scott, who have torn back up to the top of the slide and are now arguing whose turn it is to go down. 

“You really want Iñez in your face and yelling at you in Spanish?” Caleb raises an eyebrow.

“Uh, who would she be yelling at? She’s scared shitless of me,” Stiles points out. 

Caleb’s head tilts back and forth in that _you’re right, but I don’t want to admit it_ gesture; Stiles speeds up enough to see Caleb’s grimace, prompting him to grin. Still, he takes one more look at Stiles and Scott, who have abandoned the slide for the swings and appear to be competing to see who can swing higher. 

Chest squeezing again, Stiles finally has to look away when he trips over something and nearly crashes into Caleb. He brushes off his apologies and keeps going, but when Stiles looks back again for his younger counterpart, the view of the swings is obstructed by the building next door. 

The memory of them, of Stiles and Scott’s brotherhood at its onset, is still burned into his mind’s eye, though, and honestly Stiles never wants to let it go. 

:-:-:-:

Of course, it’s when they’re almost back to the Hale house that it all goes to hell. 

They’re in the woods – where every bad thing happens – and Juan is holding onto Caleb’s hand. Caleb is asking questions about Juan's day, like what they learned, what did they do, any more about Juanito's friend Shelby today? Juan is chattering a mile a minute back, his earlier lassitude nowhere to be found. Stiles finds himself in the unusual position of not being the fastest speaking person around or even the most excitable, energetic, hyperactive. Is this what normal people feel like? Because jeez, does he feel exhausted and it's only been a few minutes. 

He's opening his mouth to make a joke along those lines, something about being envious that he never had any cool toys like Juan's BIONICLE sets to play with, when 

_CRACK_

Instantly he’s on the ground, lying flat and with all his human senses alert. Caleb’s not far away and on high alert, but Juan, Juan Juan looks scared and like he's about to scream his head off. Now, Stiles doesn’t know how far sound carries in the woods, but Caleb has got to get him to stop before the hunters find them, if they haven’t already. He doesn’t know what the bullet’s trajectory is or if it was aimed at them, but there’s no time to think or ask questions. 

"Caleb!” Stiles hisses, scrambling over to Juan, who is huge-eyed and pale as salt. He claps a hand over his mouth, muffling the wail almost as soon as it emerges. Juan jerks back, looks up at Stiles with huge eyes like he's just committed the ultimate act of betrayal. “Sorry! Sorry, but dude, I need you to be really, really quiet. Can you do that? At least until we get out of here?” 

Juan's teary eyes wrench at Stiles's heart, but he nods, slow at first then faster. Heaving a sigh of relief, Stiles tries for a reassuring smile, wincing when Juan sniffles, sucks in a huge breath. He tenses, but Juan does nothing more. “Good, that’s great, now—”

The next thing he knows, he’s been bowled over by some sort of truck. “Get your hands off of him,” Caleb snarls, eyes amber yellow and breath hot on his face. 

"Dude, what are you doing?!" 

"Let. Go. Of. Him," Caleb repeats. 

Stiles looks where he's got his hand around Juan's chest, releases him in a hurry. "Dude, I'm so sorry, I was just trying to—" 

Caleb is on Juan, pushing him behind him as he continues to bare his teeth. "Don't you ever put your hands on my son ever again," he growls. 

"I wasn't going to hurt him! I was just trying to get him to be quiet so he didn't give us away!"

"I don't care. You don't touch the young of another pack, no matter what your intent. Do you understand me?!" 

Stiles rears back. What the fuck?! Here he is, trying to keep Juan from alerting the shooter to their presence, and Caleb's accusing him of, of what, he doesn't know?! But it's not good, whatever it is. Instinctively, Stiles's lips draw back, baring the teeth underneath them, and his own growl comes rumbling out of his chest. 

They stay like that, the both of them at a stalemate. Behind Caleb, Juan whimpers. Stiles cuts his eyes toward him; at the same time, Caleb stirs, attempts to cover more of Juan. 

That, and the look of miserable fear on Juan's face, is enough to snap Stiles out of it. 

Forcing a hard breath, Stiles makes himself shake off the anger, to smooth down his own hackles, so to speak. Still, it's an effort to be calm as he grits out, "Look, now is not the time for pack pissing contests. That shot? Was probably the hunters, and they’re probably looking for us. We've gotta get back to the house, and quick.” 

Caleb's still growling, but his glowing eyes have shifted from Stiles to the woods around them. Stiles can practically see Caleb's ears twisting this way and that, trying to figure out the location of the hunters, or whoever fired that shot. 

"Okay. Okay, okay, okay. Let's try to think here.” Stiles tries to sound calm and not as if his anger is still swirling in him. (Stiles, hurt a kid? Like hell.) “Why don’t you shift back? Or better yet,” he adds, inspired, “I’ll distract the hunters for you. You take Juan back to the Hal – back to the house,” he corrects. “Then you tell Mrs. Hale that there might be hunters are in the Preserve, and I’ll figure out what they’re up to. Capische?” 

"I should be taking care of them," Caleb says, his lisp clearing up as his teeth shrink. "I know these woods better than you do." 

"And you'd trust me to take Juan?" Stiles rebuts, skeptic. 

" _No_ ," Caleb puts out a hand to clutch Juan closer to his back. 

"I didn't think so. Besides, I have no idea where the house is from here," not totally a lie, he could probably work it out if he were determined, "and you'd be faster."

Caleb nods his head sideways in reluctant agreement. Then his head twitches. “Better distract them quick,” he says, finally, finally coming out of his crouch. “I can hear them coming.” 

"Them? More than one?" 

Caleb nods. 

Shit. “Which way are they coming from?” Stiles comes up from his own crouch, a sharp pain in his side reminding him Caleb used him for tackle practice. Ugh, he’s going to have bruises when this is done. Werewolves, Jesus.

Jerking his chin to Stiles’s left, Caleb gathers a tearful Juan up into his arms. “They’re not very far away now. There's a few of them making noise, but I'd bet those are playing bait while others wait to take a shot." 

“Probably. Makes it easier to distract them,” Stiles says, grim. “Now go!” 

Caleb doesn't need any more incentive. Breathing a sigh of relief as they disappear into the trees, Stiles starts running in the other direction, trying to make as much of a racket as possible. Depressingly, after the first minute, it doesn’t require much effort. Stiles's particular brand of luck and natural clumsiness means he finds every tree root possible to trip him up without trying, and the leaves aren't exactly making for easy footing, either. Nonetheless, he keeps going, making a lot of noise as he goes. 

As he continues on, the woods gradually darken. Stiles only notices when he misjudges the distance to a specific tree particularly badly and careens into the ground instead. He scrambles back up as fast as he can, but there’s no one around. Where are the hunters? According to Caleb, they hadn’t been very far off. You’d think they’d have found him by now. 

He looks up through the canopy. There are still remnants of light shining through, but the canopy is blocking most of it. Well, at least the dark will make it easier to hide from the hunters. 

“Also make it harder for me to see,” he mutters when he trips again. “Well, since it’s what I’m going for, I guess it’s all right. But ugh, the bruises.” 

Nonetheless, he wonders again where the hell the hunters are. That’s when it occurs to him that maybe whoever fired the shot weren’t hunters, per se, and he’s doing this for nothing. Or they're not werewolf hunters, anyway. 

“But wild game hunters aren’t allowed in the Preserve,” he says to the nearest tree, which doesn’t respond. “Of course, there are always people who try to go around that. Even if they know better.” Stiles thinks briefly about the look on the hunters’ faces if the police found them with illegal guns, but then abandons that thought when naturally that train of thought leads to his dad confronting them, and no. Just. No. “Serve them right, though.” 

He skirts along a ravine, barely noticing as it curves away from him. “Where are they?” he says instead, looking over his shoulder. 

“Looking for us?” 

“Jesus Christ!”

**End Chapter Six (1)**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bad news, it’s a cliffhanger! >:D 
> 
> Okay, but seriously, y’all. If I hadn’t cut it off here, you’d have had to sit through another 11k words. I don’t know about some of you, but 20k words in one setting of a multi-chaptered story is a hard sell (no matter how good the story is), especially when the previous chapters were nowhere near that length. You’re welcome. (Even if I did accidentally cliffhanger >:D)
> 
> In other news, I’m almost to the end of the original version of fixing things!! No more rewriting scenes from six or so years ago (hallefreakinlujah)! That’s not to say that the material after next chapter is going to come any faster, because there’s still some reworking to do there, as well, but progress!! *dances* 
> 
> That being said, that means that once I upload Chapter Six part 2, I WILL be going on official hiatus like I mentioned last(?) chapter, with no word on when I’ll actually be finished. However, since I am now footloose and fancy-free (for the time being), it probably (hopefully) won’t take as long as getting a single chapter up has been the past year or so. I’m so sorry about that, by the way! 
> 
> The cultural notes were getting long, what with the pop culture explanations and stuff, so I moved them: [dreamwidth](https://theshadowpanther.dreamwidth.org/141776.html) | [wordpress](https://panteraumbrae.wordpress.com/2018/04/29/sunday-april-29th-cultural-notes-for-chapter-six-1-of-fixing-things/). Yay for external links! 
> 
> Finally, LOTS of stuff to digest this chapter. Why was Stiles able to see those jars? Hello Peter AND EEEEEEEE TEN YEAR OLDS SCOTT AND STILES ERMAHGERD LK:SJDF:SLDKJR R:LKJR and SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT KATE NO STATUTORY RAPING, KATE NO STATUTORY RAPING, _KATE NO STATUTORY RAPING!!!_ (Guess what show _that’s_ from.)
> 
> Thanks to everybody for the awesome kudos and comments, they are the things I keep in mind when each chapter is more uncooperative than the chapter before it. Hugs and kisses to all that like them, and virtual tea and cookies for the less touchy-feely ones!


	7. Sixth Step, or, Into the Woods and Through the Trees (2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things start to go to hell in a handbasket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand I bring you another 10K+ words chapter. This is getting to be a habit, man. (I’m sure it’s a hardship for everyone here.) 
> 
> Just as a heads up, there are several panic attacks in this chapter. They will be marked with a * at the beginning and another * at the end. Use CTRL-F to find the second asterisk if you’re leery about panic attacks. 
> 
> **Warnings:** OKAW; douchebaggery; white supremacist-style dialogue; panic attack; unreliable narrator; self-esteem issues; passive suicidal ideation

“Jesus Christ!” Stiles only saves himself from falling over by grabbing into the nearest tree. “Where the hell did you come from?” 

Kate Argent smirks, resettles her shotgun over her shoulder. “For a werewolf, you’re not very observant, are you?” she says, considering. 

Shit. 

Kate laughs. “Aw, did poor sweetie think he was being subtle?” She pouts and shakes her head mock-sadly. “I’m afraid not.” 

When Kate steps forward, Stiles can’t stop himself from taking a step back. Sue him okay, he defies anyone not to do the same in the same situation. Kate’s smirk widens, and she actually coos, like he’s some kind of animal who’s done something adorable. 

…Fuck. How did he not figure it out before? To her, werewolves are animals to put down, that’s what this whole thing is about. And shit, she thinks he’s one, so that makes him an animal. To put down. Fuck. 

“Wow,” he says without thinking. “Can’t say I’ve ever been on this side of the equation before.” 

If possible, Kate gets even more gleeful. “A new werewolf?” she purrs, her walk becoming – oh God, ew – predatory. “Even better.” 

Oh, no, Stiles has had enough of feeling like prey. “No, no, you’re wrong, I’m not –” _a werewolf_ , he means to say (except he is, he just accepted this, like, two days ago), but then a crossbow gets pushed into his face and dries the words up in his throat. Swallowing, he eyes the bolt already nocked and drawn. There’s no way that bolt isn’t covered in wolfsbane, he’d bet his favorite Batman shirt on it. 

“I don’t think so,” Kate says coyly. Stiles looks past the crossbow past the hunter holding it to her, blinking. “We’re top-notch hunters, sweetie, and we know wolves when we see them. Especially,” her eyes drag down and up his body, causing him to shudder involuntarily, “new ones.” 

“Ugh, that’s so uncomfortable,” Stiles complains. “You do realize you are, like, ten years older than me?” He tries to think of a way to get out of this mess. Instead, his traitorous brain insists on imagining the crossbow bolt launching forward and sinking into his flesh, the wolfsbane burrowing into him, blackening his veins as it stretches for his heart and kills him. God, he hopes Caleb finds Mrs. Hale soon. 

“What can I say,” Kate laughs with a careless shrug, “I like my boys young.” She smiles lazily. “By the way, what’s your name, sweetie? We’ve seen each other a couple of times already, I can’t just call you ‘sweetie’ all the time, although I for sure wouldn’t mind.” 

“Bet you say that to all the boys,” Stiles retorts automatically. The hysteria is really rising now, threatening to take over and take him down. “And really,” he adds, feeling reckless and unable to stop, “you must think I’m stupid if you think I’m going to fall for that.” 

Kate chuckles. “Look at you, being all brave.” She reaches out a hand towards Stiles’s chest. “Will you be my very own knight in furry armor?”

Stiles yanks away from Kate’s reach at the same time the guy with the crossbow grabs Kate’s hand. Kate shoots a glare at the hunter sharp enough to shrivel Stiles’s balls, but the hunter only shakes his head. “They’re beasts, not human,” he says. “We shouldn’t consort with them as if they are.” 

“Yeah, you don’t want to get werewolf cooties,” Stiles puts in. The hunter glares at him, but Stiles doesn’t care. Kate’s is more frightening. 

In fact, Stiles swears for a moment that Kate’s face hardens, something dark and deeply disturbing flitting over it. But then she’s smiling coyly again, as if nothing had happened. Stiles knows better than to think he imagined it, but that was seriously scary shit. He wouldn’t blame his brain if it wanted to think that. 

“All right,” Kate says to her fellow hunter, jerking her hand from his grip. “You’ve made your point.” Her grin is edged and more similar to a wolf’s baring of the teeth than Stiles is comfortable with; apparently the hunter agrees, for he takes a step back. The crossbow wavers from its position on Stiles for a moment, Stiles notices, then firms, but it’s enough for him.

“You know,” he says, shifting, “not to break up this little lover’s quarrel you guys have got going there,” flicking his fingers at the two of them, “but you might want to invest in a few leadership skills. Just because your guy doesn’t seem to respect you!” he says hurriedly at Kate and Crossbow Guy’s glares. “And well, we all know what happens to leaders whose followers don’t respect them…” _All too well,_ he thinks, darkly humorous. 

“Don’t you threaten us.” Crossbow Guy pushes forward aggressively, hefting the crossbow higher. 

“Easy there, dude, take a chill pill! Nobody said anything about threatening you!” Stiles scrambles backwards around the tree, which gets him not only space away from the crossbow but also the added bonus of no longer having the tree at his back to get in the way of an escape attempt. Not that he thinks he can run fast enough to make a clean getaway, but it’s still one less obstacle to overcome. 

Crossbow Guy growls, frustration evident in every inch of his body. Kate, however, has faded from irritation to amusement, and stills Crossbow Guy with a hand on his shoulder. 

“He’s stalling,” she tells him, smirking when Stiles freezes. “Maybe he thinks if he keeps talking, he’ll give his pack time to rescue him?” 

“Pack? What are you –” Stiles swallows when Crossbow Guy turns back, Kate’s smirk twisting his lips. Fuck, how does he get into these situations? Well, okay, he put himself up as bait for this one, but seriously. 

“Shall we call the others?” Kate asks Crossbow Guy. Without waiting for an answer, she turns to the darkness around them. “Come on out, boys! The sweet little werewolf wants to play!” 

One minute Stiles sees trees. The next, hunters pop out of the shadows like so many ninja. Most are bearing guns or shotguns, with one or three handling crossbows. They all range in a circle to surround Stiles and level their weapons on him. Not one among them looks sympathetic. 

Fuck. 

“Sorry, sweetie.” Kate curls her mouth up into a quasi-sympathetic line. “I’m afraid no one will be able to help you against these numbers.” 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Caleb was right, a few were playing bait for a lot more hiding in the woods. This does not look good. 

“Not so confident now, are you, kid?” Crossbow Guy smirks. “Where’s your pack now?” 

Again with the assumption about Stiles’s pack. “I don’t have a pack,” Stiles says, feeling the truth of it in his bones. Werewolf or not, he isn’t part of anything. He’s not part of the Hale pack, his pack back in the old timeline may as well be dead. For all intents and purposes, he’s here, stuck in the woods, encircled by hunters, all alone. 

"Of course you do," Crossbow Guy says. "We saw you." 

"What?" Shit, don't tell him they think Derek is part of his pack. Stiles would pray if he believed in God, instead of vaguely acknowledging that some people seem to and other people don't. 

"Derek," Kate says. _Fuck_. "You're awfully concerned about him being around me, aren't you? Rather... possessive, I would say." Her smile is way too knowing. It should be illegal to have that much innuendo packed into a single upturn of lips. 

"I – I," Stiles splutters, searching for a way out. His heartbeat, already racing, now feels like it's going to explode out of chest and run away screaming as fast as it can before it bleeds out and dies a filthy death in the Preserve. Eugh.

"And that other guy, the one who's supposed to be Derek's uncle," Crossbow Guy puts in. "Though I doubt that," he adds with a sour laugh. 

"Are there any more members of your pack?" Kate asks. Though her smirk hasn't gone away, Stiles gets the impression that she really wants him to say yes. "Or are you scouting for your Alpha?" 

Holy God, they think he's a beta. Apparently he doesn’t look like an Alpha. Too skinny, not enough muscles, he guesses, barking out a laugh. "‘Scouting’?" he parrots. "No, you have entirely the wrong idea. I'm not scouting for anybody."

"Hmm." Kate purses her lips. She looks disappointed. "And here I thought we wouldn't have to resort to more extreme measures." 

"What? What the hell are you – hey!" Stiles shouts as two of the ninja hunters grab him by the arms. "Let me go!" 

"I don't think so, sweetie." Kate steps forward long enough to chuck Stiles under the chin. "Not until you tell us what we want to know." 

With a sickening feeling, Gerard's face swims into view. It didn't take much to take him down – he being a frail human at the time – and Gerard didn't even want anything, just for Stiles to be a message. From Scott's vague account of how he found Derek in the Hale basement before killing Peter the first time, Kate Argent prefers other methods of torture. And that's when she has a werewolf. Who knows what that would do to him, who despite being a werewolf, doesn't seem to have the werewolf healing to keep him alive? 

Stiles can't help himself, he starts thrashing. But his hunter imprisoners are unmoved, their tightening grips the only sign that Stiles's struggling is having any effect. And of course his stupid brain thinks _Ugh, yet more bruises_ instead of being useful and remembering some of hand-to-hand techniques from Tekken and getting him the hell out. 

Kate watches all this with the indulgence of a lioness towards a kitten. "You're going to have to try harder than that to get by Brian and Josh.” She nods to Stiles’s jailers, who again don’t react other than in grunts. Ugh, why are all minor goons the strong and stoic type? For once, Stiles would love to run into a hunter who was excitable, or loved to listen to the sound of his own voice. He’d have a chance of tricking them. 

“Why pretend?” Kate continues coyly. “We all know what you are. Let that werewolf strength out, test your _mettle_." 'Mettle' has never sounded so dirty in a person's mouth before Kate's; Stiles wonders if she and Peter went to the same Innuendo school and took the same “Infuse Every Word with Awful Pedophiliac Creepiness” class. And aced it. 

_Arooooooooooooo...!_ Stiles has never been more relieved at hearing a howl and more filled with dread at the same time in his life. On either side of him, Brian and Josh (who is whom, again?) jump; Kate whips around, her smirk gone as she spins this way and that, trying to determine the direction of the howl. The other unnamed hunters are doing the same, some pointing their weapons away from him, others trained enough to keep them where they are. 

It's now or never. 

Stiles gives a huge yank on his arms. Josh loses his grip, but Stiles has to kick at Brian's shin to get his other arm free. Once both arms are back in his possession, though, he's dashing towards the hunters behind him. One in particular is still looking away; he only glances down when Stiles is nearly upon him. There's time to see the hunter's shocked and terrified expression; then Stiles has barreled into and past him into the dubious safety of the trees. 

"Let him go!" he hears Kate shouting. "He'll go back to his pack. Keep on his heels and we'll find the pack!" 

_That only works when the werewolf you're hunting can't hear you_ , Stiles wants to shout back. But why give them ideas? And anyway, he's too out of breath from sprinting to talk. He zigs and zags, hoping to make it harder for the hunters, while also hoping he’s not running directly at the Hale pack. Man, he should have kept up his tree-climbing days, back when before his mom died. That would have been really helpful right now, just zip up one of the trees and hide there until the hunters passed. 

But no, he's gotta keep going. Where, he has no idea, and doesn't care as long as it gets him out of here and away. 

Pretty soon it becomes clear that that's going to be an issue. The roar of multiple ATVs growls out behind him, chilling him to the bone. 

He’s so screwed. 

“They won’t kill you,” he says, or tries to say. The words come out more like gasps. Oh, hey, he does have breath to talk after all. “They want you to lead them to the pack.” Gasp, gasp, trip over a root, scramble to keep his footing, keep going. “Since that is a bad idea,” jump up onto a log! Go sprawling in the sodden leaves on the other side! Get up and keep going! “Obviously you have to make sure you don’t go to the pack.” 

Oh God, he has to stop. Even Coach didn’t make him run this hard for this long. Not in straight distances, anyway. Suicides involved changing directions, after all. And he’d thought cross country had done some good for him. 

Just then, his foot sinks and goes sliding. He shouts as he goes down hard, the ravine showing him no mercy as he tumbles down its side. Something slams into him and interrupts his progress; without looking Stiles knows who it is. The flash in his mind’s eye of _yellow eyes, metal, and black fur_ tells him everything he needs to know. 

“You can’t be here,” he winces out. When he tries to roll to his feet, his body protests with epic twinges. Whatever. He’s got shit to do. His body can deal. “The hunters, they’re hoping I’ll lead them to you. You’ve got to – urghhhh.” He bends over when his stomach gurgles with nausea. Cross country so did not prepare him for this. He should have taken track instead. 

“We heard,” Laura says, her usual sour tone missing. “Mom and Peter are circling around behind them. They’re thinking they’re going to lure them into a place bounded on three sides, so that we can finally remind them of the Code.” 

“Bad idea,” Stiles objects. “These guys don’t care about the Code. They eat the Code for breakfast. Go back and tell them to think of another plan!” 

“We need to get out of here,” Laura ignores him. She’s staring with hot gold eyes back where Stiles came. “The hunters are nearly upon us.” 

“Aghhh!” Stiles throws up his hands. “Why do I even bother?” 

He’s surprised when Laura answers. “Because pack faces things together. You’re not pack,” Stiles, about to say that very thing, closes his mouth, “but you did ask for asylum with us. Sort of.” Laura glances at Stiles out of the corner of his eye. “And you are in trouble. So Mom feels like she has to help you. And wherever Mom goes, the pack goes, too. We’re a unit, we face things as one.” 

“Oh.” It makes sense. God knows that when everyone Before worked together, things worked out a hell of a lot better than working by themselves. Stiles still can’t help but feel like he’s dooming the Hale pack, that because they’re coming to help him they’re going to meet their end at Kate Argent’s hands sooner rather than later. 

Well, at least they know she’s a threat, right? So they’re better prepared to meet it than with no warning. 

(Even in the space of his own head, that doesn’t sound convincing.) 

Following Laura proves to be no less hair-raising than running away from the hunters. Stiles has to push himself harder than ever just to keep on her heels, and they make a lot of twists and turns that sometimes Laura has to grab Stiles into doing. But then they stop, and Stiles peers around to see the hunters’ ATVs roaring right by them. 

“That’ll throw them off our tail,” Laura says with gleeful satisfaction. “Now let’s go find Mom.” 

“Yeah, and then I can tell her exactly how terrible this plan is,” Stiles snarks. Nonetheless, he falls silent at Laura’s look (though not without making a face) and tries to walk as quietly as possible. The ATV engines are growing quiet, but Stiles can’t help but be hyperaware of everything. The woods at night are some of the creepiest places to be, and that’s without knowing they harbor creatures that go bump in the night. 

Fortunately for Stiles’s straining nerves, it’s not long before they run into Mrs. Hale and – ugh – Peter. 

“There you are!” Mrs. Hale exclaims. 

“Are you crazy?” Stiles blurts. His voice arcs embarrassingly high, but at this point, he doesn’t care. “You think these people care about the Code? In fact, they’d sooner laugh in your face, and then they’d shoot you with bullets! Wolfsbane bullets! Confronting them is a Very Bad Idea!” 

Mrs. Hale, despite being in Beta form (no sideburns for her, so not cool), looks calm. “They still answer to a higher authority,” she says through her fangs. “Even if they don’t respect the Code personally, the other Argents do. Kate will back off when faced with reprisal by her own.” 

Stiles snorts rudely. “Yeah, that’s not going to work. The head of the family is just as crazypants as Kate is.” 

“You know Victoria Argent personally?” Mrs. Hale’s lack of eyebrow rises. Whether in incredulity or skepticism, Stiles can’t tell. 

“Uh, no, I was talking about Gerard Argent.” Stiles fidgets, hoping that his heartbeat isn’t giving away his fear and repulsion. 

“As I understand it, for the Argents, the women are the leaders.” Now it’s curiosity that tilts Mrs. Hale’s head. Hey, Stiles is getting good at this “Interpreting Hale Facial Language” thing. He feels so accomplished. 

Nonetheless, he utters a short, mirthless laugh. “Yeah, no, not really. Like, I’m sure Mrs. Argent gives the orders, but Crazy Grandpa Gerard is really good at taking things into his own hands.” 

His own hands. Heh. He gives himself a gold star for the pun. Way to make light of being punched by a geriatric, Stiles. 

“So you’re saying Gerard might be the one calling the shots here, not Kate or Victoria?” Mrs. Hale asks, not!eyebrows furrowing. 

Huh, he hadn’t thought of that. “Maybe?” Stiles shrugs. “To be honest, I didn’t think much past getting here.” 

“Understandable.” Mrs. Hale nods, is silent for a moment. Finally, she says, “All right. That, unfortunately, does make sense. We’ll have to change the plan.” 

“So we’re going back to the – to your house, then?” Stiles asks without much hope.

“No, we’ll still corner them.” There goes that dream. “But we’ll go in and disarm them as much as we can first.” 

“What good is that going to do?” Stiles trails after Mrs. Hale. He catches Peter’s eye accidentally, looks quickly away. He still doesn’t know how to deal with Alpha whammying him at the library (other than wanting to know how to do on purpose. He knows – he _knows_ he’s going to need to one day). It was just – weird. Like, he shouldn’t have been able to do it, but he did? But the fact remains: he doesn’t trust Peter. If he looks at the asshole for too long, he’ll do something worse that he won’t quite regret, and now’s not the time for that. If it ever is. 

“It gives us a better bargaining position when the other side doesn’t have weapons,” Peter says, his voice all dark amusement. 

Stiles shoots Peter a sharp look, but the dude’s focused on the trail ahead (as far as he can tell). Still, Peter’s Peter; just because he’s saying one thing doesn’t mean he’s not saying a dozen other things, too. Stiles resolves to keep an eye on the dude’s position and what he’s doing as much as he can. 

The trees they pass are pretty much nothing but huge black monoliths to Stiles now. The sun hasn’t fully set yet, but the little light it’s throwing off isn’t enough for Stiles to distinguish their features. Mrs. Hale is a big black shadow in front of him, and although she isn’t in Alpha shift, the way she’s silhouetted, Stiles can imagine only all too well how she might look. She’d be like Peter when he was Alpha, a misshapen mix of human and wolf, red eyes glowing eerily in the dark of the woods—

“So, Stiles.” Peter says next to him. 

Shit! Stiles barely keeps from tripping, manages not to fall flat on his face or whirl on Peter. Point one for him. But damn, speak of the devil.

Oh, Peter’s watching him with an amused smirk. “What?” Stiles snaps. “What do you want?” 

“Merely to hear your story,” Peter says smoothly. 

“Story?” Stiles’s traitor mouth says before he can stop it. 

Before him, Mrs. Hale’s shadow twitches. 

“Yes, story. You haven’t really said much about yourself or where you came from, my sister’s efforts otherwise,” Peter’s tone turns dark for a moment, then slips back into its characteristic sardonism, “and you seem well-versed in the Code-breaking activities of this group.” Peter’s shrug is a sense of movement out of the corner of Stiles’s eye. “I’m simply curious how you can be so confident that they won’t follow the Code.” 

Ugh. Stiles gives himself a moment of blinding hate for Peter, who _would_ be the one to see through the holes in Stiles’s story. And to bring it up at the worst moment possible. Quick, think of something! 

“Perhaps the same thing happened to your pack?” Peter suggests delicately, when Stiles takes too long to respond. 

“Uh…not exactly,” Stiles manages. “I mean, they did break the Code, but…” think, think, think! “It happened to one of our neighboring packs!” he blurts, inspired. _Sorry,_ he says mentally to Older Derek. Plus, it’s the truth, so his heartbeat won’t stutter. Hopefully he won’t choke. “Yeah, their house got burned down,” he continues to Peter’s raised eyebrows. “By them. The hunters, I mean. It was during the full moon, so most of the pack was locked in the basement. When Kate set fire to the place, they had no way of getting out.” 

Remembering the photos in his dad’s case file on the Hale fire, Stiles has a delayed shudder. Bodies, too many for his peace of mind, charred and identified only by dental records. He remembers that moment he had a few days ago, where he recognized Iñez and Juan by their names in the file, not by their bodies. Being who he is, he follows the inevitable conclusion of that track to the other bodies: Mrs. Hale, Kurt, and Caleb, all lying still and unrecognizable, no personality left, no sign they were ever anything more than stretched, browned skin held together over stubborn bone. 

“Surely some of them weren’t locked up,” Laura objects, bafflement creasing her face. “Why didn’t they get out?”

“They would have tried to get the others out, but the fire must have been too hot and spread too quickly for them.” Mrs. Hale says softly. Stiles can’t really see any bit of her now, so her voice comes out of the darkness in front of him, a ghost without a body. He shivers. 

“Damn.” Laura sounds troubled. Unlike Mrs. Hale, Stiles can feel Laura next to him, her solid presence doing more to settle him, remind him that everyone’s alive, than anything else. “I…can’t imagine going through that.” 

“Neither can they.” Stiles’s laugh is dark. “None of that pack in the fire survived, except for one. He went insane.” He studiously avoids looking at Peter. Not hard, since he was trying to ignore him anyway. 

“But there were survivors,” Peter says shrewdly. 

Stiles turns, surprised, is caught by the shine of Peter’s eyes on him. “Yeah,” he says after a moment, quietly. “There were.” He breaks Peter’s gaze. “But life wasn’t too good to them, either. They’re dead, too. All of them.” Or as good as. 

Silence falls then. Stiles is both grateful for it and not; it gives him time to think, but not about how to twist the truth more. Instead his mind brings up Older Derek’s face as Kali speared him on a lead pipe through his heart. That memory is fuel for some of Stiles’s worst nightmares, although Scott and his dad’s deaths have eclipsed that lately. 

When Peter breaks the silence, Stiles isn’t sure whether or not he’s relieved. Because with Peter, he’s going to ask—

“So after Kate Argent was done with your neighboring pack,” yup, he called it, “she came after yours?” 

“We were trying to deal with the insane survivor,” Stiles says, trying to think his way through this. He’s tired all of a sudden, tired of traipsing through the woods, of being questioned, tired all over from his new collection of aches and bruises. “Kate came back and we were caught in the crossfire.” 

“And now you’re the only one left, as far as you know,” Peter says. 

“Yeah.” Stiles’s shoulders sag with the truth of that statement. The realization that Lydia and Isaac, Allison and Derek and Cora (who left them, they just left like none of them were hurting, like none of them needed them, for comfort and reassurance that everything actually happened, it did, it _did_ ) are pretty much as good as dead by now hits him all over, makes him want to curl up into a ball and never move. He has to wonder why him, why not Isaac, who’s actually a werewolf and doesn’t have so many problems; or Lydia, who’s so much smarter and would have figured out how to get the Argents dead by now. 

Yeah, Lydia and Stiles had agreed it was he who had to go back, but… he doesn’t remember the exact reason why anymore. 

Just as he’s getting the real pity party started, a sharp breath ahead of him lets him know something’s up. Stiles opens his mouth to ask what’s going on, but Laura’s hand on his arm makes him jump, freeze in place. 

“They’re close,” Mrs. Hale says, her voice a mere whisper. “Peter, Laura, spread out. We’re going to surround them.” Stiles’s sense of Peter and Laura empties; one second they’re real and solid next to him, the next – thin air. Freaking werewolf ninja skills. “Stiles,” Mrs. Hale’s eyes flash red at him, “You run up to them and pretend like you were doubling back to shake them off your trail. Try to lead them in the direction we were going.” 

It doesn’t even occur to him to protest; it’s only after he’s taken a few steps into the darkness that he realizes, “Oh, crap, she never said where she was going to be. Also, I have no idea where I’m going.” 

He looks around behind him, but no one’s there anymore, not even a sense. Jesus. If Peter and Laura were the top of the class in werewolf ninja school, then Mrs. Hale is the freaking principal. Not even Deucalion could disappear that fast. Or that silently.

“Well,” he mutters, facing forward. “Guess there’s no help for it.” 

Wincing as his legs protest, he starts to run again. Then he windmills as he slides down yet another miniature hill – how many does Beacon Hills have, for Christ’s sake? – and comes bursting out into a faintly silver-lit clearing.

Right in the midst of a murder of hunters. 

“Shit!” Stiles tries to backpedal, but shotguns are already trained on him. The closest hunter begins to grin; Stiles wipes it off by bolting right by him. 

_CRACK!_ Stiles ducks but keeps moving. Where the bullet ends up, he doesn’t know, but it isn’t in him, and that’s all he cares about. More _CRACK!_ s go off as he streaks in and out of the murder of hunters. 

“Ow! Motherfucker!” 

Stiles looks to see that one of the other hunters is clutching his leg, where a darker spot against dark jeans is spreading. Oh, did the bad dude get hit by friendly fire? “Ha!” 

_TWANG!_ A crossbow bolt sprouts in front of him, right where he would have been had he not swerved. 

“Rude!” he shouts over his shoulder. “Shit!” Ducking a second bolt, he decides that maybe he should just focus on running, not on taunting the people who want to kill him just because they think he gets a little too furry for their tastes. Hah. 

“Stiles! Over here!” That’s Laura’s voice! Where is – there! As soon as Stiles beelines in her direction, though, she disappears. Stiles almost stops short, except that he hears _rrrrrrrrummmmm_. Shit, they’re back on the ATVs! Yelping, he puts on more speed, imagining the place where he saw Laura as the finishing line of a very long cross-country race. To the death. 

Of course, as soon as he gets there, a “Psst! Over here!” comes from his left. Stiles shears sideways, practically tearing himself in two to make it. Just in time; he hears the _trrrt_ as something hits a tree nearby. “Shit, shit, shit,” Stiles keeps running, only barely able to see anything around him now, despite the moonlight filtering in here and there. Up a hill, down the hill, up, down, up, aaaaand down – straight into a [ rock wall](http://www.lodgeontherock.com/images/IMG_3096.JPG). 

Not just in front of him; rock walls on his left and his right, with the only exit behind him. 

_Rrrrrrruuuuuummmm!_

“Fuck!” 

He turns, presses his body to the bluff. Not a second later, several silhouettes appear at the top of the hill. Stiles watches, chest heaving, as they roll down, resolve into five ATVs, all of which move to encapsulate him in a semi-circle. Each ATV is topped by a grinning hunter or two, the forwardmost of which is Kate. Kate, who snaps back her hair with a wild laugh, and is the first to climb off. 

“Well, well, look what we have here,” she says condescendingly, like they didn’t just see each other five minutes ago. “Baby werewolf, trapped, and with no sign of help on the way.” 

“Guess you were telling the truth,” a beefy guy says with a sneer. “You’re an Omega. That means we’re within our rights to end you.” 

“Sorry, kiddo,” Kate smirks. “You could have had a great life, grown up into something really special. Too bad a single bite changed all of that.” 

“Why are you doing this?” Stiles asks, desperately trying to keep Kate talking as long as he can. “Wha – I never did anything to you!” 

“Who says you did?” Kate cocks her head. “Oh, you think there has to be a reason behind everything, don’t you?” She clicks her tongue. “Not to burst your bubble, sweetie, but sometimes there aren’t any reasons for anything. Sometimes,” she smiles, stunning Stiles for a moment with how objectively, superficially pretty she is over all the evil, “it’s just because.” 

“What is ‘just because’ for you?” Stiles challenges. Wait! On his left, movement! He wrenches his eyes away, in case it’s the Hales, looking up in time to see, hear Kate – _click!_ \- cock her shotgun. 

“Me?” she says before he can say ‘Whoa there!’ Her smile turns lazy. “I do it because it’s fun.”

For a moment her answer doesn’t compute. Then Stiles starts spluttering. “Fun?” he squawks. “Murdering people is fun? People who never did anything other than exist?” 

Beefy Guy, who has climbed off his ATV, says, “Oh, you do more than exist.” He looks at Stiles with hard eyes. “When you go out of control, you maul and kill people. It’s better to put you down before that happens, so innocent lives are saved before the fact.” 

“But you’re supposed to have a Code!” Stiles flails, hoping to hell Mrs. Hale is hearing this. “‘We hunt those who hunt us’? Does that ring a bell? Anyone?” 

Kate throws her head back in a laugh. “The Code is for people with sentiment, sweetie. They need to tell themselves that to feel better about themselves.” 

Movement on the right. Flash of _black fur, metal, yellow eyes_. Yup, that’s Laura. If the first movement was Peter, then that’s two Hales in position. Now, they just need Mrs. Hale.

They probably won't have to wait long; the hunters are exactly where Mrs. Hale wanted them. Hell, she's probably lurking somewhere behind the hunters, waiting for the right moment for a dramatic entrance. 

He checks the woods behind the hunters again. No sign of movement on either side, but he’s not really bothered by that. Champion lurkers, all of them, and until Mrs. Hale shows up, it’s probably not a good idea to show themselves anyway. 

However, the pit of dread that had opened up in his stomach upon hearing of the plan is getting worse. Is it just him, or are the woods not… still enough? Now, Stiles doesn't believe in all that crap about the woods having its own mind, but he can't deny that when an Alpha, especially a powerful Alpha, is nearby, you'd feel it. The hairs on the back of your neck stick up, your skin jumps, and your imagination starts playing tricks on you, convincing you that every shadow is the Alpha ready to pounce. 

Right now? Stiles feels nothing like that. _That_ raises the hairs on the back of his neck. 

"You won't escape." 

Stiles looks down to see Kate and Beefy Guy smirking. Crap, they'd caught him looking. Hurriedly, Stiles tries to smooth his face into another expression, like terror or whatever, but he knows it's futile. It's too late, and besides, he was never the best liar. 

"No one's going to rescue you, either," Beefy Guy cuts in. Huh, he looks really ugly when he smiles like that. Nobody should die with that face to look at in their last minutes. 

Oh God, he's gonna die. Mrs. Hale isn’t going to show up and he's going to die, Beefy Guy's ugly mug will be the last thing he sees and Kate will go on to burn the Hale House down and it'll all be for nothing, oh God— 

_RUOOOOOOAAARRRRR!_ The roar shakes the trees, sets the hunters to scrambling for their weapons. Thank God, talk about horribly perfect timing. Stiles starts to sag against the bluff, but then Mrs. Hale roars again. This time, though, it sounds wrong somehow. It’s also fainter than it should be if Mrs. Hale were right behind the hunters. 

Shit, he knew this was a terrible plan. 

“Keep an eye on the Omega!” Kate snaps to one of her minions. The minion immediately spins to keep Stiles covered with his shotgun; Stiles jerks his hands up again. Kate turns back to the forest, her grim expression underscored by the blaze of the nearby ATV’s highlights. “We’ll take care of the Alpha.” 

_RUOOOOOOAAARRRRR!_ Ow! Stiles claps his hands over his ears; this roar sounded like it was, like, right next to him. Also? The trees, the ATV, and the hunters have started to tint red, and oh, no. No, no, no, no. Not now! 

The headlights make it hard to see past them, but there, right through a gap in the canopy, is the full moon. 

_Fuck._

“Spread out! We don’t want the Alpha to trap us in the bluff!” Kate orders, suiting action to words. 

The hunters are already on their way, Beefy Guy silhouetted briefly by the ATV lights as he darts across them. The cock of shotguns and nock of crossbows are loud, even through Stiles’s panic. No way Mrs. Hale missed it. So then why is it that she’s still coming on, the sense of a predator coming – _black fur, red eyes, a raised eyebrow_ – growing stronger and stronger? 

“Stiles!” The voice is faint but recognizable. Jesus Christ, but Stiles is going to _kill_ Derek. “Stiles, where are you!” 

Kate’s grin, what little Stiles can see of it, is exactly as terrifying as he’d feared. She raises her shotgun, primes it, and aims.

Everything after that happens in flashes, still images coming one after the other. 

Derek bursts out of the trees. 

Kate’s shotgun goes _CRACK_. 

Mrs. Hale howls. 

Derek goes “Oof!” 

Red bursts across everything he sees. Stiles falls away, and _only the wolf remains._

:~:~:~:

_One moment, darkness._

_The next, on his feet. Claws out. Teeth bared._

_“Whoa!”_

_He whirls. Snarls. Intruder!_ Electric blue eyes, sharp cheekbones, black sideburns—

_“Easy!” The other wolf drops to his haunches. Curls his arms around his legs. “Stiles, it’s me!”_

_Stiles?_

_He cocks his head._

_Stiles._

_Stiiiiiiles._

_What is a Stiles?_

_“Stiles?”_

_The intruder is peeking up, hope in his posture and scent. He snarls to get the wolf to duck his head again, but it’s less hostile and more absent a gesture. He’s still preoccupied over that word, that “Stiles,” and over the wolf before him._

_The wolf is… pack? Not pack? Yes, pack. But there’s something …niggling at him. An echo of a thing he can’t quite grasp. Like the edge of a steep fall, its endpoint hidden in shadow._

_Before he knows it, he’s on his own haunches, teeth and claws gone, Packmate still as a rock. There was…an injury. Heart flooding his throat, he pats at the wolf all over – wolfsbane, there’d been wolfsbane! It takes many yelps of protest and hands on his wrists before he snaps out of his worry._

_“Stiles,” Packmate meets his gaze. Those eyes slide to the side a second later, as is correct, but he is caught by the color of them, the way blue is green is brown._

_“…Der-ek?”_

_Packmate looks at him again, but_ Stiles – yeah, that’s him, he’s a Stiles – is scrambling back, falling on his butt and crab-walking backwards. He has to get away, he’s going to hurt him, hurt Derek, like he hurt— 

*Oh, God. He’s going to die. His heart is beating like thunder in his ears, battering fit like it’s going to break his ribs to get out of him. He can’t breathe, he can’t—

Wait. This is a panic attack. Oh. Okay. He’s gotta – he’s gotta breathe. What’s the pattern he and Dad made up? Right, right, it was once under a daisy, twice upon a floozy, three times a doozy, four times done! Once under a daisy, twice upon a floozy, three times a doozy, four times done! Once under a daisy, twice upon a floozy, three times a doozy, four times done.* 

“Stiles?” 

Derek. Derek is crouched in front of him. Stiles hurriedly sits upright; he doesn’t need Derek looming over him like that. As if reading his mind, Derek sinks down to cross his legs tailor-style. Whew, that’s better. 

“You okay?” Derek asks cautiously. 

“Hah!” Stiles doesn’t mean to bark, ha, bark, but it comes out without his permission anyway. As usual. “Does it look like I’m all right?”

“Well, no, but—”

Whatever Derek says after that, Stiles doesn’t hear it. **Power** descends upon him, weighty and smothering. Following it was the sense of _black fur, regal bearing, red eyes_ \- Mrs. Hale. A friendly, or as friendly as you could get without being a friend. 

It’s just... Stiles is tired of being pushed around. Of being told to “do this, do that,” and not have his own opinion heard. He has experience at this, okay? Granted, not in, like, being a supernatural creature sort of way or anything, but, like, defeating the baddie of the week? Oh, yeah, he’s got that down. 

Stiles imagines pressing back against Mrs. Hale’s presence, like some kind of weird mime trying to break out of an imagined cage. Something in the core of him, the spot where his abs meet his chest, warms, starts to get hot. Sweat breaks out on his forehead, but he keeps at it, and… 

_CLICK!_

Suddenly, the sense of Mrs. Hale’s power vanishes. Stiles staggers, the spot in his chest going cold as he takes a nosedive. Derek lunges to catch him, is the only thing that saves Stiles from a faceful of carpet. 

“Thanks, dude,” Stiles pats at Derek’s arms, absently. He’s more focused on Mrs. Hale, who is standing with Deaton at the landing to the stairs. 

“Well, you’re looking significantly more in possession of your mind than last night,” Mrs. Hale notes dryly. 

Stiles winces. 

“Mom,” Derek says, reproach in his tone. 

Mrs. Hale’s eyes flick to Derek, up and down. Visibly relaxing, she uncrosses her arms. “I’m sorry. I’m glad to see the both of you are all right.” 

Stiles looks at Derek, really looks at him. He looks fine, as bunny rabbit cute as always with his ears and caterpillar eyebrows and sharp cheekbones, not to mention his rainbow eyes (heterochromatic, his brain supplies, hetero being a Greek root meaning “other”, chromatic for “color”). But, Stiles remembers, he _was_ hurt, and in Derek’s shirt on his side… 

“ _Dude,_ ” Stiles pokes at the giant hole. “You are never going to be wearing this shirt again.”

Derek makes a face. “I know. It was one of my favorite shirts, too,” he says in a mournful tone. 

Stiles goggles at him. “Dude, forget the shirt. You were shot!” As the words come out, he gets a flash of a vague memory: of Kate’s shotgun going _CRACK_ , of a huge rage welling up in him, his brain going sharply hyperfocused with a crystal clear clarity. 

“I know.” Derek's hand rests on his shoulder. "But I’m okay. You got the bullet out, and burned the wolfsbane out, too."

"I did?" Another flash: his hands reaching out, tearing at Derek's shirt to reveal blackening veins. The whole memory's overlaid by red, with a few colors leaking through, like the glow of Derek's electric blue eyes as he pants and gasps in pain. Also, the grey of his face as the pain becomes too much and he passes out. Stiles vaguely remembers thinking _Good_ , but it’s in a voice so unlike his, he barely believes it— 

“Derek, are you sure?” Mrs. Hale presses. 

Derek glances at his mom with incredulity. “Am I sure? Of course I’m sure, I was there!” 

Mrs. Hale and Deaton share looks. “That changes things. I thought he’d gone feral, but a feral isn’t capable of—”

“I wasn’t feral.” 

Stiles can’t say why he says that. He was not, he knows he wasn’t, in control last night. But he _knows_ , the same way he _knew_ Matt was evil, the way he _knew_ Gerard was off his rocker, that he wasn’t feral. He has no idea what he was, but it wasn’t that. 

From the way that Mrs. Hale and Deaton are examining him, he gets the impression that they see that, too. 

“Interesting,” Deaton says, speaking for the first time. “It would account for how he got the wolfsbane out of Derek, at least.” 

“The way he tore through the hunters, though…” Mrs. Hale returns. 

Eeeurgh. Yeah. Stiles winces again. He doesn’t remember exactly what he did, but he remembers that he did hurt people. A lot of people. “So, uh, should I turn myself in?” 

“Excuse me?” Mrs. Hale looks at him like he’s grown a third head. 

“Should I turn myself in? Did I k-kill anybody?” Stiles faces her head on, though it’s difficult to meet her gaze. Not because of any Alpha posturing bullshit or whatever, but because, well, the guilt is rearing its ugly head. His stomach roils, and he averts his gaze just long enough to look at Derek. 

“Oh, Stiles.” Mrs. Hale’s voice is soft, soft like the look on her face when he looks up. “No, you didn’t kill anybody. You hurt quite a few of the hunters, but you didn’t kill any of them.” 

His muscles turn into jelly. “Oh, thank God,” he breathes. “Like, it’s not great that I hurt them, although if anyone deserves it, it’s them, but still. That’s a load off my mind.”

“I can imagine,” Mrs. Hale says sympathetically. 

Stiles’s shoulders unclench from around his ears. Mrs. Hale looking at him like that makes him feel better, almost as good as his dad being proud of him. (On second thought, scratch that. Nothing comes close to being as good as his dad proud of him. Nothing.) “So, does that mean I can, like, get out of here? I’m not in timeout anymore?” 

He nods to the line of mountain ash boxing in the landing around the stairs. From here, he can barely feel it, the shivering in the air that is warning and safety both. Stiles’s memory of using it to trap the kanima wars up against the realization that now it’s keeping _him_ in, irony much? 

Mrs. Hale and Deaton exchange glances once again. “We were going to ask you how that got there,” Mrs. Hale says. 

“Huh?” Stiles and Derek chorus. “Jinx,” Stiles points out automatically. Derek looks at him incredulously. “What?” 

Derek just shakes his head, turns back to Mrs. Hale. “I thought that Dr. Deaton put the mountain ash down.”

“I assure you, I did not,” Deaton puts in. 

Oh, no. No, no, no. He is _not_ going to be a freak of nature again. Please, no. He begs Mrs. Hale and Deaton not to say it, but the Looks they give each other and him are not reassuring. 

“Don’t,” he half-states, half-pleads. 

Mrs. Hale gives him a long look. Then: “All right. We’ll shelve this for now. But we will talk about it later.” 

“Absolutely,” Stiles jumps to agree. “We’ll totally talk about it, like, I will sit down and pay attention, well, as much as I can, you know, because of the ADHD and all, which reminds me, what are we going to do about the hunters? You’ve seen them now, see how much they _don’t_ follow the Code, and why did they even come up with the Code if they were just going to murder everyone willy-nilly anyway? Like, I guess there come have been some good guys, Chris Argent isn’t so bad, but he’s got his own limits, you know? I guess I can’t blame him, what with A—”

“Stiles,” Mrs. Hale interrupts. 

“Hm?” 

“Why don’t we move this upstairs,” Mrs. Hale suggests. “Then we can discuss with everyone what happened last night.” 

“Everyone?” Stiles echoes. “You mean, like, the whole pack?” 

“The ones who are old enough,” Mrs. Hale amends. “Alan?”

Deaton looks at Stiles, who looks at Deaton. With what could have been a roll of his eyes covered by a blink, Deaton bends and swipes his hand over the mountain ash. _Pop!_ goes the air, the shiver disappears, Mrs. Hale takes one giant stride. In a flash, she has Derek wrapped up in her arms, Derek burying his face into her shoulder. Stiles looks away, his stomach clenching with (guilt? pain? both?), walks over to Deaton who does him the kindness of not saying anything. 

A moment later, Mrs. Hale says, “All right.” Her voice is choked. “Upstairs?” 

“Upstairs,” Stiles agrees. 

The moment Stiles clears the topmost step, two things happen. 

First, he’s hit by a sensation of _wrong_. WrongwrongWRONG INTRUDERS in MY den get out Get Out GET OUT! The INTRUDERS are _red eyes, raised eyebrow, black fur_ , _hot gold eyes, face piercings, black fur_ and _electric blue eyes, grey hair, suspicious glare_ , not to mention _gold eyes, brown skin, a ready smile_ and can’t forget _bright gold eyes, crafty expression, wiry sideburns_. 

Stiles turns red eyes on Mrs. Hale, Laura, Kurt (oh, of course, suspicious glare, that makes total sense), Caleb (who is conspicuously Juan-free), and - oh, God, Peter. Crafty expression, huh? Yeah, that works. As he recognizes each of the intruders in his den, the sense of WRONG calms down, until by Peter it’s a sullen buzz itching at the back of his neck. It spikes a bit when he realizes Peter is there, but he can’t blame it, it’s Peter. Peter doesn’t belong anywhere but in the ground, dezombiefied and destined never to darken anyone’s door again – much less Stiles’s.

Second, at about the same time, all of the intruders press forward for Derek. The red of Stiles’s eyes halts them, at least until he works through the initial response. When Stiles relaxes, though, all hats are off. 

“Der!” Laura launches herself at Derek. Stiles barely manages to get out of the way before they’re rolling around on the ground, Derek going, “Get off! Get off, Laura! Oof, Laur- _a_!” 

“Need help, dude?” Stiles asks before he can help himself. Then he rethinks it: how is he, a hundred and forty-eight pounds of pale flesh, delicate bones, and only part of a werewolf shift, going to go up against a fully-fledged born werewolf who toppled her brother to the ground? Yeahh, maybe not. 

Derek gives him a speaking look. 

Laura bounds up before Stiles can do anything, though, heads straight for Stiles. “Oh, my God, you were Ah. May. Zing. Last night. You tore through those hunters like they were nothing! Where did you learn how to do that?” 

“Huh, what?” Stiles has no idea what’s going on here. He backs up as Laura advances on him, her smile shading into a smirk as he gives ground. Now there’s the Laura he knows, the one who smirks at his discomfort and doesn’t say things like, 

“No, seriously, it was mondo cool! You have to teach me!” 

Stiles’s jaw drops open. “Okay, who are you, who uses ‘mondo’ anymore, and what have you done with Laura Hale?” He’s thinking Gou’ald. Or maybe the Body Snatchers. Definitely a pod person, if nothing else. 

“Laura uses ‘mondo’ ironically,” Derek answers, his rainbow eyes meeting Stiles’s. They share a moment of irony over Laura’s “irony,” before Stiles’s brain finally connects the dots. 

“Oh, my God, you’re a hipster!” he screeches. 

“I am not!” Laura fires back instantly. “Why does everyone keep saying that?!” 

“Please, everyone knows that people who say they aren’t hipsters are totally hipsters,” Stiles quips. “And by the way, if everyone keeps saying you’re a hipster, chances are you really are one.” 

“Do you see me wearing plaid?” Laura demands. “Or glasses with no lens in them?” 

“I hear you complaining about ‘mainstream music’ all the time,” Derek pipes in with a cheeky grin. 

“That’s because it’s all horrible!” Laura throws up her hands. “Especially the pop music! I mean, have you heard what they’re putting out lately?!” 

Stiles points at Laura. “That! That right there is the ultimate mark of a hipster!” 

“See, Laura, now you can’t protest anymore,” Derek nudges Laura with his elbow teasingly. “You’ve been caught out!” 

Laura growls. At Derek’s next nudge, she slings her arm around Derek’s neck and proceeds to give him a noogie. Stiles snickers at Derek’s protests, makes no move to go and help him. See: a hundred forty-eight pounds of pale flesh, delicate bones, part of a werewolf shift. 

“Stiles?” 

Mrs. Hale’s eyes are on Stiles, not on her children, whom she has evidently elected to ignore. “Could I have a word with you?” 

Uh-oh. This doesn’t sound good. “What’s up, Mrs. Hale?” as he follows her a bit away from Derek and Laura play-wrestling. Christ, they’re actual puppies. Stiles is going to hold this over their heads _forever_.

“Mom?” All of a sudden, Derek is leaning on Stiles, resting his forearm on Stiles’s shoulder. Behind him, Laura is blinking into empty space. “What do you need to talk to Stiles about?” 

“Can’t a guy have a conversation in private?” Stiles gripes. He looks up at Derek. “Jeez, you’re tall,” he complains. “You’re like a hulking giant or something.”

Derek’s grin spreads into exactly that shit-eating wolfish expression Stiles remembers from Older Derek’s “I’m the Alpha now” phase. Oh, boy. Good to know it’s not just power trips that can bring that out. Ugh. 

“Derek,” Mrs. Hale says with heavy patience. “This is a conversation for me and Stiles. Why don’t you take Laura and Caleb outside and do a perimeter of the block for me? Keep the roughhousing to a minimum, please.” 

Derek hangs his head. “Yes, Mom.” He turns hopeful eyes on Stiles. “You’ll tell me later?” 

Derek’s no Scott, but those are some pretty powerful puppy dog eyes. Stiles nods, is subject to the full force of Derek’s grin. “Great! Come on, Laura, the faster we get this thing done, the sooner we can come back and spy on Mom.” 

“It doesn’t work if you announce to all and sundry, Derek!” Stiles calls after him. Derek only twitches two fingers in a wave, probably trying to be cool. Stiles snorts. In Derek’s current incarnation, there is nothing about him that could be considered “cool.” 

Mrs. Hale touches Stiles’s shoulder and nods to the living room. Stiles throws another glance at Derek’s back, this framed by the door as he heads out, then follows. 

In the living room, Peter and Deaton sit. Kurt nods at Mrs. Hale and heads out of the room, throwing a sharp look at Stiles as he passes. Rolling his eyes, Stiles tries to shake it off (no, no, no, let’s _not_ get TSwift stuck in his head, that shit is freakishly earworm-y), choosing to take a seat opposite Peter instead. 

They listen in silence as the door opens, closes again. Stiles starts to speak, but Mrs. Hale raises a hand. “They’re not off of Alan’s yard yet,” she says. “Wait until Kurt gets them sufficiently far away.” 

As Mrs. Hale speaks, the itchiness of _intruders in his territory_ buzzes forward again. Is this how Alphas know and keep track of people on their territory? Jeez, no wonder the Alpha pack always knew where Derek, Scott, or any of the other wolves were. The more you know, he guesses. 

A few seconds pass. The itchiness begins to go away, but it’s Mrs. Hale’s relaxation that tips him off. "Okay, out with it. What's going on? What's the bad news? Am I dying? Did I kill people? You said I didn't kill anybody, you weren't lying to spare me, were you? Or Derek? You can tell me, I won't freak out. Or no, I'll totally freak out, but I won't, like, explode or anything." 

"You are not dying," Mrs. Hale says with long-suffering patience. "Nor did you kill anyone, I promise." 

"Then why the cloak and dagger sh – stuff?" Stiles flails at the door. "You heard Derek, he’s going to come back quick as he can. If you really don't want him to know what's going on, you'll have to say it quick." 

"When you stop talking, we can," Mrs. Hale snarks. 

Stiles zips his lips shut and throws away the key. Mrs. Hale snorts, unimpressed, which, rude. He can totally be quiet, he can! 

"What my sister is trying to do, in her very diplomatic way, is to talk about something we all noted last night," Peter drawls. "Tell me, Stiles, you don't remember much about last night, do you?" 

"Peter," Mrs. Hale scolds. "I was getting there." 

"Sometimes it's best to rip the band aid off and deal with the hurt than to draw it out," Peter turns steely blue eyes on Mrs. Hale. Mrs. Hale looks back with her dark eyes; Peter holds it for a moment, before cracking and turning away, but the point is made. 

As Peter is looking away, Stiles sees a flash of some ugly emotion over his face. It's gone as quick as lightning, but it was there. Weirdly (or not, this is Peter he's talking about), that flash serves to calm Stiles down. It's the first sign that Peter is anything like Older Peter. Stiles knows how to deal with Older Peter. 

"What do you get out of it if I tell you?" Stiles challenges. 

Peter looks honestly surprised. His eyebrows fly up, his eyes widen, and he stares for a split-second. Then his smirk comes back and he's back to that almost-familiar Peter with only marginally softer edges. 

"You present a mystery," Peter says, now using his eyebrows to project unconcern. "I – we – are only trying to do what we can to unravel it before it hurts someone. Namely, someone in my pack." 

Stiles flinches. 

"Now who's drawing it out?" Mrs. Hale says pointedly. "You stay quiet. I'll talk to him, and you'll keep your commentary to a minimum." 

Peter rolls his eyes, but only says, "Of course, sister dear." 

Mrs. Hale doesn't believe him any more than Stiles does. Wisely, she moves to take advantage of his temporary compliance before he can ruin it. Again.

"Last night, you didn't shift. Or rather," Mrs. Hale continues over Stiles's "What?" of surprise, "you did, but it seemed to be more of a mental shift than a physical one."

"You mean, I turned into a wolf in my head, but not my body?" Stiles asks, skeptical. 

"That's a good way of looking at it," Mrs. Hale nods sideways. "Normally it would be the other way around, the body changes, while the mind doesn't." 

"Or it changes, but not to the point of losing control," Peter puts in. Hah, totally called it that he wouldn't stay silent for long. 

"Alan, the next time Peter talks, would you take him to the next room and explain to him what 'staying quiet' means?" Mrs. Hale's voice is no different, but Stiles can sense the edge of Mrs. Hale's patience, nonetheless. Peter sucks in his lips and sits very still. 

"Of course, Talia," Deaton agrees readily. 

"Thank you. Now," Mrs. Hale turns back to Stiles, "normally the fact that you shifted in your head would be a good sign, as I'd say it would be progress towards eventually shifting the usual way. But, there are two problems with this." 

"The wolfsbane and the mountain ash," Stiles guesses. 

"Exactly,” Mrs. Hale says on a sigh. "The wolfsbane isn't so much a thing as you might think, we are able to handle it for very brief periods, as long as we don't ingest it. But the mountain ash...." 

"Even with the shift suppressed?" Stiles half-asks. 

"Not unless the shift were being drained away somehow, making you more human than wolf. Which I don't think is happening to you. Too many things don't fit." 

Unbidden, Older Derek's voice and scowl appear in his mind's eye. "This? No fit. This don't fit." 

As from far away, he hears his own voice say, "What does that mean then?" 

"It means," Peter says delicately, "that either something else is going on with your Alpha spark than a suppressed shift, or you're not a werewolf at all. You're something else, and we have no idea what." 

For one of the few times in his life, Stiles's mind stills. Or it goes so fast he can't tell it's moving. He can't tell which. All he knows is that he feels like he's standing in front of an ajar door with _something_ on the other side – and he's really, one hundred percent sure he doesn't want to know what's on the other side. 

If he's not a werewolf, what is he? 

"There's more," Mrs. Hale adds into the lengthy silence. 

"More?" Stiles does not squeak, he absolutely doesn't, except for the part where he totally does. "What else could there possibly be besides the fact that I might not be a wolf??"

Mrs. Hale hesitates. Stiles drops his head and starts laughing hysterically. His _life_ , oh my God. Seriously, can it get any more fucked up? 

He knows that was a stupid question as soon as he thinks it. Also? The answer is always, always yes, it can. 

The fucked-upness comes in the form of Mrs. Hale saying, "The hunters know you’re an Alpha… whatever. They saw you lose control, yet not shift. Not only that but you hurt quite a few of them. They're going to hunt you even more assiduously now, for that, and because they'll want to figure you out." 

"If they get you, they'll likely not kill you," Peter says, looking as serious as Stiles has ever seen him. "Instead, they'll keep you as their lab rat, until they find what makes you tick. And then they'll just torture you until you go insane, after which they'll put you down and say you were an Omega. Or you die, after which they'll say the same thing. And then? Then they'll go hunting for other wolves, for your betas, for they know very well where there's an Alpha, there's his betas." 

"But I don't have any betas," Stiles objects. His heart trips in his chest so hard, he swears _he_ can hear it, never mind actual werewolves. He looks up into Peter's face, how his eyes have flashed yellow, at the sneer twisting his face into an almost demonic caricature. 

"Don't you?" Peter growls. "I think Derek would disagree with you." He leans forward into Stiles's space, close enough Stiles's hackles go up, his vision starts shading red. Peter seems unaffected, though Mrs. Hale puts a hand on his shoulder. "You know who the Argents will find when they go hunting? Us. They'll find us. And they'll do to us what they did _to your pack_.”

Stiles reels. Like, his world spins around on him like he's drunk on Jack Daniels all over again. Oh, God. In trying to help the Hales, trying to keep them alive, he's done worse. He might have brought on them exactly what he's been trying to avoid. 

He, not Kate, may have just killed the Hales. 

*His heart pounds in his throat. At his ribs. He gets a little light-headed, probably because he can't breathe. His chest locks on him, so his lungs can't expand the way he needs them to.

"Stiles, listen to me," Mrs. Hale's voice is commanding, breaks insistently through the panic. "You are safe. Everyone is safe. No one is dead, you are not at fault. You haven't killed any of us, or anyone else. Repeat after me: You are safe. You haven't killed anyone. Everyone is safe. You haven't killed anyone." 

"E-everyo-one is safe," Stiles wobbles. "I-I haven't k-killed a-anyone." 

"Good. Again. Everyone is safe. You haven't killed anyone." 

Mrs. Hale's dark eyes bore into him, hold him fast against the waves of hysteria. He clings to it, sticks like a limpet to Mrs. Hale's conviction, lets it seep into him like a balm over the panic. His breath catches, stutters in his chest – once under the daisy, tw-twice upon a floozy, three times—* 

"Everyone is safe," he says. "I haven't killed a-anyone." 

"Good. That's good,” Mrs. Hale says soothingly. “Good job, Stiles. I'm very proud of you." 

"Shouldn't," Stiles gasps. "Sh-should just kick me out. Then the hunters won't be after you." He warms to the idea. It's perfect, all he has to do is lay down a deliberate trail out of Beacon Hills, set up some sort of trap that'll kill Kate so she doesn't come back for the Hales, and boom, done. Why didn't he think of this before? And bonus, it'll keep him from ever bringing his killer – literally – luck on people again. 

“No,” Mrs. Hale says very firmly. “Peter was wrong to tell you what he did. Yes, they will come looking for us, but we can handle them. I am not leaving a seventeen-year-old, not leaving _you_ to deal with them by yourself.” 

"But why?" Stiles cries. "Why are you so –" Determined. Stubborn. All of the words that mean the same thing. 

Mrs. Hale says, very frankly, "Because otherwise, you are alone. Human or werewolf, no one should be alone." 

That's it. That's all it takes. Two little sentences, and Stiles is once again a sobbing wreck. He turns from her, tries to hide his face, but he can't hide the uncontrollable hitching of his breath, or the way his body shudders as each sob wracks its way out. He keens as the weight of everything – the danger he has brought down on the Hales, seeing the younger versions of himself and Scott playing, Caleb's reaction to Stiles’s trying to protect Juan, Kate's smirk as she trapped him against the bluff, Derek going down, Peter's face sneering as he accuses Stiles of killing his family – sinks down on him, pulls him down into the cesspool with no way out, no light at the end of the tunnel. 

Arms come around him, refuse to be shoved off. Mrs. Hale envelops him with her body; the only thing he can do is turn his face into her shoulder and let her hold on tight. 

****

**End Chapter Six (2)**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Stiles. Peter really struck a nerve, didn’t he? 
> 
> So, I know a few of you were really upset about the way Stiles has been treated, but consider Peter’s point. According to the story they’ve got, Kate’s after Stiles, not them, so conceivably it would be natural to resent him for disrupting their normal lives and putting them in danger, no? Not to mention he has problems shifting, and to me, that would be a huge red flag. I’d be like “thx, but no thx, might wanna try someone else, bud.” Not all of us can be Scott McCall, Noblest True Alpha of Alphas. 
> 
> However, future chapters will not be so bad, plus the action looks to be ramping up some, hooray! Reminder that this story is going on hiatus – in rewriting this, I basically Jossed my own remaining chapters, and basically have to write completely new material. I have no idea when I’ll (re)finish the story, but summer is not looking like it’s going to happen. Especially since I’m job hunting. *ducks tomatoes* At least I didn’t leave you on a cliffie this time? *ducks more tomatoes* 
> 
> **Any comments about Stiles being a huge crybaby will be summarily deleted. Heck, any negative comments at all will be laughed at, shamed, and then summarily deleted. You have been warned.**
> 
> Cultural notes:  
> -Apparently, to Microsoft Word, “faceful” is not a word. It is now. #PetitionToAddToTheDictionary  
> -Peter’s eyes: According to Teen Wolf Wikia, Peter’s wolf eyes at the time of Paige’s death were gold. They became blue later on in between Paige’s death and the beginning of S1. (Uh-huh. Right. Sure.)  
> -Gou’ald: Stargate and Stargate: SG-1. Stiles also watched Stargate: Atlantis, and his favorite character was Radek Zelenka.  
> -Laura the Hipster: Hello, Laura has face piercings. And Strong Opinions on music. She’s totally a hipster. (Not sorry, Laura.) I, on the other hand, have no opinions on music. If you like the pop music from mid-2000s, more power for you.  
> -Handling wolfsbane: After all, Derek does handle purple wolfsbane with bare hands before he burns it in S1, “Magic Bullet.”  
> -Spark draining away: Yes, this is a reference to S4.  
> -“This? No fit. This don’t fit.”: The Miguel moment will never not be a highlight of S1, okay.
> 
> If there’s any other cultural moments which confuse you, drop me a line.


End file.
